


The Same

by Anonymous



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Ankle Cuffs, BDSM elements, Bad Writing, Bisexual Martin Whitly, Blood and Gore, Blow Jobs, Body Hair, Bribery, Crime Scenes, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fluff and Angst, Gay Malcolm Bright, Gore, Grinding, Hand Jobs, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm Sorry, Incest, Involuntary Orgasms, M/M, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Masochism, Masturbation, Mentions of Injuries, Murder, Night Terrors, Obsessive Behavior, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Out of Character, Parent/Child Incest, Past Infidelity, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Psychopaths In Love, Pubic Hair, Restraints, Rimming, Sadism, Subspace, Typos, Uncontrollable Orgasms, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, Whump, mentions of vomit, script
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-10-28 00:42:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20769662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "I will always love you.. Because we are the same."Malcolm Whitly has a dirty, dark secret. A secret he has yet to tell anyone in his life. One that his multitude of therapists, psychiatrists, and doctors had yet to hear.No one had ever known his secret. That is, no one besides his own reflection in the mirror after violent night terrors and days of exhaustion.Not a single soul besides his own knew the depraved thing he held in his heart.Until now.





	1. 1 - Malcom

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry to every single person in this fandom. 
> 
> But anyways, here's the first chapter!! Obligatory exposition chapter. 
> 
> This fic will probably become quite inaccurate as new episodes come out, but the concept and first chapter was written a day after the Pilot aired. So :P
> 
> This can be considered out of character, though I think it quite in character for my adaptation of Malcolm. I kept unconsciously typing Michael instead of Malcolm while writing this.. Hmmm, wonder why.. 👀
> 
> The POV of this will be third person, though it'll focus on different characters throughout. I'll be updating this possibly once a week, as the show unfolds. So, if you like it, let me know and keep up with it for updates!
> 
> If you don't like it, please don't flame me (do people still use that term?) but maybe leave some criticism? Tell me what I can do better?
> 
> Obviously, this isn't made to hurt anyone or make someone deliberately uncomfortable, so if the tags make you iffy then maybe don't read it! 
> 
> Thank you for reading this. Once again, I'm sorry, fandom.

Malcolm Whitly has one, dirty, dark secret. A secret he has yet to tell anyone in his life. One that his multitude of therapists, psychiatrists, and doctors had yet to hear.  
  
No one had ever known his secret. That is, no one besides his own reflection in the mirror after violent night terrors and days of exhaustion.  
  
He was in love with his father.  
  
His psychotic, serial killer, locked up but somehow still loving, _biological_ father.  
  
It was sick. So, so very sick. Much like Malcolm himself. He had never been called sick directly, but after years of his mother's pitying glances and shoving pills down his throat (not literally.. anymore. she had stopped once he turned 19.) He had figured out that something was seriously wrong with him.  
  
Now, thinking of it, perhaps in love wasn't the right word, the healthiest word, but he knew that it was the correct way to describe the way his soul seemed burst open with feelings when he thought of .. Dr. Whitly.  
  
It was hard to address him as his father in his mind sometimes, even though that was exactly what he was. it was a barrier that he could not cross when his thoughts became depraved. Like now.  
  
He supposed it all stemmed from their incredibly unhealthy relationship, after Malcolm had called the police and turned his monster of a father in to the law's hands.

And.. whatever had happened before that. He didn't know exactly.  
  
As a child, he didn't truly grasp what was happening, or why his mother was refusing to let him visit his father.

After many tantrums and countless doctors, he was allowed to see the man again. Even though it downright disgusted his mother.  
  
He had been locked up for nearly 3 years before Michael saw him again. Malcolm had expected him to be furious, to yell and bash his hands against the bars, maybe.

Be resentful towards his son for stopping his spree.

Let out the anger Malcolm felt for himself.  
  
But he wasn't. All he got from his father was a smile that lit up his eyes and a soft "_Malcolm.. my dear boy.._"  
  
Sometimes he wished his father would be outwardly angry at him. Maybe it would take away the anger he felt at himself. Perhaps it would lighten the load of self loathing he felt at the decision he made all those years ago.  
  
Maybe his father's anger would feel better than his father's disappointment.  
  
Malcolm shivered in a cold sweat, sitting at the end of his too-big bed. Turning his head, he looks at his bedside clock. _3:45 AM_. He had taken the restraints off his wrists after roughly 4 hours of pitifully trying to fall asleep.  
  
It was cruel, his body refusing to obey and sleep. It would be 3 or 4 more days until it finally gave up and he would pass out. Then the night terrors would start, and the cycle would repeat. The tremors in his hands were constant.  
  
It was even more cruel for his tired mind to think about things he would rather not, things that he had not allowed himself to think for a decade.  
  
He knew it was because of the copycat case, because he had seen him again. His mind latched onto it, sucked onto it greedily until it was all he could think about.

Until logic had left him completely.  
  
His love for his father had always existed, though at some point in his life it had twisted into something darker, something different than familial love.  
  
It was unhinged, in an inherently _unhealthy_, _sexual_, borderline _romantic_ way.  
  
Malcolm laughs bitterly out loud, cold tears already dripping down his face as his mind fights itself. Like _romance_ had anything to do with what he felt.  
  
Though there were times when he thought of laying with Dr. Whitly and running his fingers along his skin, naming each of his bones and telling him how much he _loved_ him, what he would give up to be _with_ him.  
  
Seeing him again, it brought back all of the (mostly) latent feelings he had experienced in his youth, tenfold.

He was more strung out than ever.  
  
His eyes close as more tears of ice fall, his father's face flashing behind his eyelids.

The man looked so different from when he was first incarcerated, even from when he last saw him ten years ago, to now.  
  
Still, he spoke the same. Regarded his son the same. Treated him no differently than the loving father from his memories. It made him _seethe_.  
  
In the 7 years Malcolm had regularly visited his father, the more unhinged and broken he slowly became.

He obsessed over him, thinking no other thoughts and preparing for their next visit even when they were months apart.  
  
It got to such a point he researched his murders in his spare time, agonizing over every little detail and the _precision_ his father put into his work.  
  
He had been planning on confessing, pressing his face to the bars and whispering his dirtiest secret to his father, straining his neck to kiss his cheek and then his lips _and_..  
  
However, his plan was put to an end before he had even truly thought of setting it into motion.

His mother found some of the print-outs he had made regarding the cases, and he had been admitted into a psych ward for 6 months because of it.  
  
Malcolm came out of the ward changed, mind different from treatment.

He began working in the justice career, trying to get a job with the FBI. Deliberately trying to go against his father.  
  
He felt like a rebellious teenager, though he was past that stage of his life at the time. Even though he wasn't speaking to him, he was goading him. Hoping, wanting a reaction.  
  
His father's reaction to him wanting to join the FBI is something he will never be able to erase from his mind.  
  
"_I should have been more supportive when you wanted to work with the FBI._."  
  
Malcolm laughs, though it doesn't sound joyful at all. It is hysterical. Right. Supportive. His father was many things, but _supportive_ was not one of them.  
  
He goes through their conversation once more, picturing his father in his sweater (covering his cuffs) and how happy he was to see him. How he called him his boy, immediately became concerned over his exhaustion..  
  
The hair on top of his head was curly now, mostly gray but streaks of brown running throughout it. It gave him a strange salt and pepper look, and when Malcom pictured his profile his heart beat in his ribcage erratically.  
  
He was still so handsome. Devishly so. It made Malcom so _angry_. How dare he look so- so god damn pristine when he was here, out, suffering because of him?  
  
How dare he look so perfect and attractive Malcolm wanted to taste his lips and **_cut him open and study every inch of him from the inside out?_**  
  
Malcolm sobs, covering his face as his shoulders shake. He tries to compose himself, wiping his face and staring at his reflection at the mirror affixed to his dresser.  
  
His watery blue eyes staring back at him, identical to his father's.  
  
_I will always love you. Because we're the same._  
  
Out of everything his father was, a serial killer, a psychopath, a manipulative abuser, a liar.. He was never, ever wrong when it came to Malcom.  
  
He was always right. They were _the same._  
  
And being in contact with his father again made it so much harder to hide that fact.


	2. 2 - Martin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin's outlook on the situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uhhhh.. yeah. I took a bit of liberty with this chapter, just to flesh things out a bit. I know Ainsley probably d(i)yes her hair blonde, but I thought it would make an interesting plot point!
> 
> I got a comment on the last chapter! Eee! I've tried responding to it a billion times by now, but I keep getting the Server Time Out glitch, so I'll try in a few hours or so and see if it works.
> 
> I tried doing linebreaks this chapter, just to make it more even! I'm not sure it will work, but I'm going to hope for the best :0

There was not a single person on the Earth that Martin Whitly loved more than his son.  
  
The boy was a demon to his devil, a knight to his king.  
  
Martin cherished him above all others, and had been carefully grooming him in his own footsteps from a young age.  
  
Malcolm was born after 2 years of marriage, a quite unhappy 2 years of marriage.  
  
Martin hadn't _particularly_ wanted to marry Jessica, but she was a respected philanthropist in the city and his pool of clientele and colleagues alike widened when they married.  
  
It was _beneficial_ at best, _toxic_ at worst. Jessica loved to drink in her free time, and often lost her inhibitions.  
  
It wasn't attractive to Martin at all. It made his lip curl up, anger boil in his stomach.  
  
However, being married to Jessica was a good way to let his aggression out. In fights, in (frankly unsatisfying) sex, and arguing over work, space, and anything they could underneath the sun.  
  
Finding out Jessica was pregnant 2 years in was both a blessing and a curse.  
  
At this point in his life, Martin had only killed a handful of times, but they were much more satisfying and thrilling than anything else he had done in his life.  
  
Immediately, looking at the ultrasound machine as the doctor droned on and on about vitamins, check-ups, and a due-date, he worried. Not for the child, or Jessica. But for himself.  
  
How ever was he going to have the time to murder with a _child_?  
  
Turns out, it was much easier than expected.  
  
Halfway through the pregnancy, after they had learned the gender of the child, it dawned on him that his son could be just like _him_.  
  
It made him grin like a madman, someone to carry on his legacy.  
  
Martin picked up more surgeries, working efficiently and saving money even though they were filthy wealthy. He wanted to have the best welcome to the world, with his father by his side.  
  
When Martin was home, he would stay by Jessica's side. Not for the woman, no, she was quite dull, actually. Of course, he never expressed this. He had perfect control of his emotions.  
  
No, he stayed for the roundness of her belly, his _son_ beginning to kick.  
  
Singing a lullaby to her belly as she slept, stroking the curve obsessively, practically shaking out of his skin when a foot kicked at the surface, brushing his fingers.  
  
The birth was long and messy, but it was all worth it when his boy was held up by the doctor. Coated in red and screaming his existence into the world.  
  
He was _beautiful_.  
  
Martin felt genuine tears well in his eyes for what felt like the first time as he cut the cord, separating this angel from the wretched woman who so tortured him during her pregnancy.  
  
After Malcolm was swaddled, Jessica insisted on holding him. Martin's hands twitched incessantly. He itched to hold his son.  
  
While Jessica held his child, Martin surveyed the hospital staff, silently deducing each and every one of their deaths. From quick and clean, to long and messy.  
  
It calms him in the trying time.  
  
His deducing is interrupted by a clearing of the throat. His gaze snaps to Malcolm, eyes slowly trailing up to Jessica. Secondarily.  
  
"Do you want to hold him?" She asks, sitting up more with an exhausted smile.  
  
"Oh, yes, please. You rest now, love. I'll keep him safe." It felt like his smile would split his face as he carefully held his son, cradling him to his chest.  
  
Those first few weeks are the times Martin looks back fondly, when he took a hiatus from killing to solely care for Malcolm.  
  
Jessica developed postpartum depression after leaving the hospital. It was quite inconvinent for Martin, and Malcolm by proxy.  
  
"Please, love." It wasn't often that Martin truly begged. This wasn't acting, like it usually was with Jessica. "_Please_ feed him."  
  
Malcolm was squirming in his eyes, face red and angry as he bawled his lungs out. He was hungry.  
  
"I _can't_." Jessica sobbed, pulling the blanket over her, turning away from him. Turning away from her duty as a mother. To provide nourishment for their son.  
  
"You.. you must. Jessica, don't you hear him crying?" He leans in, closer to the lump under the blankets.  
  
"I CAN HEAR HIM JUST FINE! HE NEEDS TO _SHUT UP_!" She screamed suddenly, ripping the blankets off of her, her face stained with tears, wild and angry.  
  
"GET HIM _OUT OF HERE_, MARTIN!" Malcolm was wailing at the top of his lungs, unhappy with his mother's screaming. Martin's heart hurt, listening to it.  
  
Dumbfounded, he took the babe out of their room, taking him to his nursery.  
  
"Shh, my boy, shh.." Martin patted his son's back, rocking him back and forth gently. His crying had lessened, but he was still fussing greatly.  
  
Thankfully, the newlywed father had bought formula in advance, just in case. He briefly set Malcolm down in his crib as he prepared the formula.  
  
Afterwards, sitting down in the rocking chair he had built in the nursery, he was quite pleased with the situation.  
  
Holding Malcolm to his chest, he watched and rocked as the babe ate his meal. His eyes (just like his father's) were half shut in contentment, and he lay docile in his arms after he had been burped.  
  
Martin kissed his forehead, whispering to him. "It's quite alright, my boy. You were always meant to be _daddy's boy_."

* * *

Malcolm was an ever curious child, constantly asking questions and wondering about what his father was up to.  
  
It was both wonderful and terrible, as it was so adorable it made Martin's lips curl involuntarily. But it was also troublesome, once he got back into the "scene."  
  
(No, not that scene. Though he _had_ been involved with that as well. He had _quite_ enjoyed being a dominant.)  
  
Killing took up a good chunk of his time, that of experiments and disposal, so there were instances where Martin had to leave Malcolm in the hands of his mother.  
  
This never quite went well, as Jessica was quite blunt and didn't have an ounce of maternal instinct in her blood.  
  
More often than not, Martin would return home with a lapful of angsty Malcolm in his lap, and Jessica with a glass of wine in her hand or a cigarette between her lips.  
  
However, Malcolm was shaping out quite nicely. Time was passing fairly quickly, and he mentally recorded every little quirk and tick his boy had, all with a gleeful expression.  
  
The only thing that had ever made him this happy was watching the life drain out of someone's eyes.  
  
Everything was going well, until it wasn't. Jessica was pregnant once more, which left a sour taste in Martin's mouth. Something felt.. off.  
  
He was significantly less present during the pregnancy, leaving Jessica to fend on her own as he took care of their son. Nourishing him and lavishing him with attention.  
  
Beaming when Malcolm drew him pictures and told his father how much he loved him.  
  
Jessica went into labour at the house, and it was Martin's duty to get them to the hospital. He worried more about Malcolm than Jessica, making sure the boy wore his coat and shoes and brought everything he would possibly need at hospital.  
  
His wariness of the pregnancy is quickly explained, as the girl comes out of her mother's womb with light blonde hair. With his own brown hair, and Jessica's red, this is highly unlikely.  
  
The child is _not his_, but to put up appearances, he kisses her wrinkly forehead and names her Ainsley.  
  
Jessica loves Ainsley to pieces, which infuriates Martin to no end. He is downright furious, watching the wretch of his wife coddle and breastfeed the girl.  
  
The only thing that brings joy to his life is blood on his hands and his dear Malcolm's smile.  
  
Martin teaches his son how to ride a bike, holding onto the back of it until Malcolm is balanced, and letting go.  
  
Of course, this only works in the literal sense. Martin had made a vow when Malcolm was born, he would never, ever let the boy go.  
  
Still, he is proud when Malcolm rides by himself, and shouts happily. He looks a bit like a buffoon, but Malcolm's beaming smile makes up for everything, filling his heart with a bright feeling.  
  
He embraces his son, lifting him off the ground and repeating "My boy, my boy.." Proudly. He doesn't miss how his son buries his face into his neck, inhaling deeply. Greedily.  
  
It strikes him as _odd_, at first, as he has seen no other child do such a thing when being affectionate. However, he rolls his eyes at himself and kisses the top of Malcolm's head.  
  
Malcolm was no other child. He was **_his._**  
  
It's around this time that his killings become more _sadistic_, more planned. He begins the Quartet, mixing drugs from his work and injecting it into his prey's hearts.  
  
It is so poetically beautiful, the fear in their eyes, the frozen stiffness of their trapped bodies.  
  
It gives him a rush like any other.  
  
Afterwards, when he's soaking in the adrenaline, panting like a man running a thousand mile race, Martin wonders how Malcolm will take his victims.  
  
When his time comes, of course.

* * *

  
Martin knew that Malcolm had called the police.  
  
Of course he knew. It was only a matter of time before the boy did. After he had caught on.  
  
Malcolm was always too good for his depraved, monstrous father. He had a good heart, and good judgement.  
  
That would change as he got older, Martin was certain of it.  
  
Yes, he thinks as he tells Malcolm he will always love him, they are the same, cuffs clicking around his wrists.  
  
It is only a matter of time.  
  
And time is now all he has.

* * *

  
The pain of separation from Malcolm is unlike any other. It is worse than hearing his cries as a babe, even worse than when Martin's own father beat him for hours, until he could no longer move.  
  
It is a long three years, but the feeling of seeing his boy's face is much more intense than any feelings of sorrow.  
  
Even if he falters, even if he can't answer his son's questions. He is just so happy to see him.  
  
The next 7 years are tough, but wonderful at the same time. Malcolm visits him diligently, like the good lad he is. He brings a notebook, writing down notes of certain conversations and topics his father brings up.  
  
Malcolm blossoms into his teenage years before his eyes, and Martin is mesmerized.  
  
The boy's bone structure is stunning, one perk of his mother. His skin is nearly flawless, only a few blemishes of youth dotting the area of his face. His lips fill out.  
  
Though his eyes.. His eyes will always be Martin's favorite feature.  
  
His eyes say so much, even when his guard is up. Every emotion, every thought. Martin can read him like a well loved book by then, is able to predict what his son will say just by the glimmer in his eye.  
  
Which is why Martin is surprised he didn't catch on sooner. It isn't until Malcolm is writing incredibly fast one visit, his pen slips from his fingers.  
  
And falls into Martin's cell. The boy looks horrified.  
  
Martin bends in his chair, licking his lips and picking the pen up. Holding it out to his son. "Here you are, my dear boy."  
  
"Th-thank you." Malcolm stutters out, still caught off guard by his own clumsiness. When he takes the pen back, their fingers brush and the boy shivers. Averting his gaze as a red flush spreads across his cheeks.

Martin's eyes follow the bead of sweat trickling down the side of his teenage son's face. Can practically scent the sex pheromones, the hormones waving from his developing body.  
  
Oh. _Oh_, this is delightful.  
  
Afterwards, he begins to push the boys boundaries every visit. A wink or two in a joking manner, smiling at him more and adding more nicknames into his speech.  
  
Malcolm never disappoints, turning red and fumbling over his speech, his notes, his eyes not sure where to look.  
  
Truly, his boy is so _predictable_.

* * *

  
Until the visits stop.  
  
Initially, Martin is confused. They were making so much progress, Malcolm always seemed so bashful and content with their visits.  
  
What changed?  
  
Ah, the FBI. Malcolm had only mentioned it once, but Martin had gotten so heated over it that Malcolm had look genuinely scared for a moment. Perhaps that was why?  
  
No, no, he argues with himself, that can't be it..  
  
It's a long, gruelling decade, sulking in his cell. Thinking of his son as he ages, wondering what he's up to, how he has been.  
  
Not directly influencing his boy puts Marttin on edge. He needs to see him.  
  
Martin asks the guards to call him, ask why he hasn't been visiting. The only thing he gets back is a call from Jessica, saying that Malcolm doesn't want to see him anymore.  
  
What good will that do him. He hasn't trusted the woman since the breastmilk incident.  
  
So, he must wait. And wait. Until his beloved boy returns to him. Returns to where he _belongs_.

* * *

  
  
Malcolm is beautiful. That is all the Martin can think when faced with their reunion, even as his son pulls out the detective card and deliberately wounds him by calling him "Dr. Whitly."   
  
Even as Malcolm goes on about a copycat, he cannot take his eyes off of him. Off of him and the door, exactly. Anxiety thrums at his sudden loss of control.  
  
He doesn't want his precious boy to leave. He wants him to stay, stay with him forever, safe. _Together_.  
  
Malcolm calls him out on it, and Martin can only express his surprise. Suddenly, the tables have turned. He cannot help but grin, agree to help him. With this.. Malcolm is certainly back within his grasp. Just like.. how it should be.  
  
Even after he's left, Martin cannot stop smiling. He _knows_ Malcolm will come back.

* * *

And he does, of course. Just like Martin knew he would. Just to gloat about a successful investigation, a copycat behind bars... Malcolm is seeking his father's approval.  
  
And his approval he has. Martin tries not to ogle so openly, but he feels starving, after not seeing the boy for so long.  
  
It's like seeing a completely different person. But yet, Malcolm is aching familiar.  
  
Martin stands as his son does, trying to convince him to come again.  
  
"There's so much more I can teach you about murder.." He sounds casual, but inside he is bursting with psychotic glee. "Maybe we can solve a few.. **_Together_**."  
  
Martin gives him son a heated look, his hands fidgeting with his cuffs. He watches Malcolm's Adam's apple bob as he swallows.  
  
Still so easy to manipulate, to mold to what he wants.  
  
"Goodbye, Doctor Whitly." He gives his father a curt nod, his gaze lingering for too long to be anything but suggestive, and Martin's stomach twists pleasantly.  
  
The door shuts behind him, and Martin breaks out into a smile.  
  
"My dear boy.." He says to the empty room, still grinning.  
  
Martin will see him soon. He is _sure_ of it.


	3. 3 - Prodigal (Interlude)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His eyes trail down the drawers, staring at the bottom one with the key in it. All of his father's case files, photos, and personal belongings he had kept from their family home.
> 
> He could take a break, look through it.. Think about the way his father laughed, the slight smile on his lips as he was cuffed.
> 
> Malcolm shakes his head firmly, turning on his heel and refusing to think about it. Though the drawer seems to mock him from far away, even when he leaves the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! This story has gotten so much support and love that it's floored me. I love you guys. And I love this pairing.
> 
> I'm brimming with ideas for this story, which is strange and difficult because we only have one episode..
> 
> Anyways, this chapter is pretty intense! More backstory, more obsession! We even get some sexual stuff, though it's only with Malcom. And an appearance from the NYPD characters!
> 
> How many times did I write "refreshment counter" in this chapter? Because it felt like a lot.
> 
> I included a song in this chapter as well! I always listen to music when writing, and I came across this one. I thought it worked perfectly with this story.
> 
> Next update should come Tuesday or Wednesday! Or maybe Thursday, depending on how long it'll be. I always watch the show the day after release.
> 
> The song in this chapter is Prodigal by One Republic. You don't have to listen to it while you're reading, but it might be nice to! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> \- OP

The tension inside the NYPD building was similar to an overheated sauna.  
  
At least, it seemed that way to Malcolm Bright.  
  
It was the morning after the case had closed, the morning after his breakdown.  
  
He didn't get any sleep (real shocker there) and was running pure on cynical thoughts and self-hatred.   
  
Nonetheless, he needed something to distract him from his too big, emotionless apartment and his broken family.   
  
The NYPD had several different floors, all assigned to different ranks and positions. The primary detectives were on the fourth floor, and so Malcolm had to travel past the gossip circle of what he mentally referred to as "paperwork officers."  
  
Unfortunately, gossip traveled in New York, and it was no different in the police department. He was already a popular topic, after the night terror that ended with several pistols pointed at his head.   
  
However, he had an inkling the truth of his heritage had leaked.   
  
It was probably that man, JT. He obviously didn't have much of a professional filter, Malcolm wouldn't be surprised if he blurted out his dirty secret.  
  
Thankfully, his true secret would never be revealed. He made sure of that.   
  
Getting into a tight elevator to travel, he closed his eyes as he pressed the button for the fourth floor and tried not to think about how it resembled a cell. A box.  
  
**The girl in the box..**  
  
A cold sweat broke on his forehead, and he wiped it away as the elevator began to head up. Malcolm didn't do well with small spaces.  
  
His toes curl in anxiety in his dress shoes. Inside, his heart was bouncing in his ribcage. _Nowhere to go._  
  
It stopped 2 floors up, and he inhaled sharply between his teeth. Malcolm had hoped, vainly, that it would be a straight shot to the fourth floor.   
  
Of course, things never seemed to go his way. Several people entered the elevator, and he tried not to pant openly as he had to move, trying to stay close to the door.  
  
His hair was damp, as he stared at the buttons of the elevator, trying to think of anything but his situation.  
  
Not for the first time in his life, Malcolm wanted to escape his own mind.  
  
Two of the people in the elevator shared a glance behind him. He could see them out of the corner of his eye, mouthing words at each other.  
  
_Did you hear.. His father.. The Surgeon.._   
  
They met his gaze, and looked away from him (and each other), panicked. Malcolm's jaw clenched, and he turned from them fully as the doors opened.  
  
Finally.  
  
Malcolm pulls a handkerchief out of his suit jacket (_"A gentleman always carries a handkerchief, Malcolm." His father's soft, loving voice as he wiped tears from Malcolm's face.._) wiping the sweat from his forehead and composing himself.  
  
He looked around, scoffing at the way people staring at him ducked their heads down, tried to hide their gawking.   
  
Malcolm was so **sick** of being the freak.   
  
He headed over to what he dubbed the "refreshments counter", something the police and the FBI both had. A place with coffee, pastries, and water.  
  
He eyes the food. When had he last eaten a meal? Malcolm didn't quite remember.  
  
If he thought harder, it had to have been with his mother and Ainsley.. His mother pouring a tumbler as she disgraced his father with words, heading out without looking at him. _Goodnight!_  
  
He sighs. After that, he had left, the food turning to ash in his mouth. Last night, before heading to his apartment, he had ate a hard candy. The same kind GIl had given him as a child. But even that had tasted bitter.   
  
His father was vegan now. Maybe he should follow his advice. Would it make him feel better? Dr. Whitley sure looked quite well.. too well, considering.   
  
Too _alluring_. Even after 10 years.  
  
He stops his trail of thought there, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment and opening them with an expression of indifference. Why was he here again?  
  
Oh, right.   
  
While being here was not very high on his list of enjoyable things (Number one was going to Central Park and feeding the ducks) it was much better than being alone in his apartment. Thoughts running wild.  
  
Even thought they tended to do that everywhere..  
  
A hand on his shoulder made him nearly jump out of his skin and into the ceiling.  
  
His mind automatically takes him back to that moment, his father's hand heavy like lead on his shoulder, telling him he _needed him.. I won't let you go.. Remember, we're the same._  
  
Whipping around in panic, his battering heart is going a mile a minute, seeing Gil with his hands in a universal surrender gesture.  
  
"Woah, hey, it's just me." Gil said, eyebrows furrowing together in concern.  
  
"...Sorry." Malcolm said after a long pause, calming his stance and giving a shaky half smile at the man he considered a mentor. Trying to calm himself.  
  
"You're still on edge, I see." Gil gives an attempt at a laugh, hands dropping, but it doesn't sound quite genuine. He was worried. "No sleep, huh?"  
  
"Do you even have to ask?" Malcolm raises an eyebrow, falling into the banter easily.   
  
"No, I guess not." Gil reaches out to him, patting his shoulder once and putting a hand on the back of his neck to comfort him.  
  
Even though Malcolm is extremely uncomfortable with the physical contact, he lets Gil touch him. A few moments of discomfort was better than seeing the hurt in Gil's eyes when he pushed him away.  
  
"Listen, uh.." His hand leaves, and Gil looks around for a moment before leaning in. "Did you go see him? Again?"  
  
Malcolm nods sharply, and Gil looks displeased. "I had to. I told him I would tell him how the rest of the case went."  
  
Gil sighs. "Malcolm, you know better than to make any promises with... _that man_." He whispers those last two words like a secret, even though it's anything but.  
  
Everyone in the building must know who his father is by now.   
  
"Gil, I'm not a _child_ anymore." He glares at Gil, hands tremoring at his sides.   
  
"I know, Malcolm, but.. you know how your father is. I don't want him to drag you in that spiral again."  
  
Malcolm opens his mouth to respond, but stops as he sees JT and Danni approach the refreshment counter.  
  
They both look at him, wary. Everyone is silent, however the chatter on the floor continues around them.  
  
JT is the one who breaks the silence, unsurprisingly. "Sooo.. The Surgeon, huh?"  
  
Malcolm sighs as Danni whacks her partner on the arm, scolding him as he rubs the spot where she hit.  
  
"Sorry about him, Bright. He doesn't know when to shut his _big mouth_." The last part is said pointedly at JT, the female detective's eyes narrowed and glaring.   
  
Malcolm nods, giving her a small upturn of lips. The prodigal son didn't trust anyone in his life, not even Gil or his sister.   
  
But Danni had been fairly kind to him, only giving him a few disbelieving glances when he was profiling.  
  
At Nico's apartment, she had checked on his well-being before Nico's, and made sure he didn't get his brains blowed out after his night terror.  
  
This made her a good contact at the NYPD, and she smiled back at him, nodding once and leading JT away from the refreshment counter.  
  
Malcolm sighs, turns his gaze back to Gil. "Have any cases for profiling?"

* * *

He returns to his apartment with a manila folder of cases and a complimentary hard candy in his pocket, setting it down at his dining table and putting his coat up on his rack, near the door.

His suit jacket comes off next, dress shirt rolled up to his elbows.  
  
Thankfully, his trip out of the NYPD occurred without incident, his feet carrying him back to his place.  
  
Not home, _never_ home.  
  
Malcolm didn't like taxi's, preferring to walk or ride a bicycle places he needed to go.   
  
Though bicycles usually made him feel emotional..  
  
He sighs, opening a top drawer in the living room. Pulling out his profiling notebook, made of leather and crisp, durable pages.  
  
His eyes trail down the drawers, staring at the bottom one with the key in it. All of his father's case files, photos, and personal belongings he had kept from their family home.  
  
He could take a break, look through it.. Think about the way his father laughed, the slight smile on his lips as he was cuffed.  
  
Malcolm shakes his head firmly, turning on his heel and refusing to think about it. Though the drawer seems to mock him from far away, even when he leaves the room.

* * *

Several hours later, when all of the profiles are written down and organized to be turned in, Malcolm looks up from his work. Out of the big windows, at the city.   
  
It's dark already.   
  
He hadn't noticed, even though the only light in his apartment was the overhead in the dining room.   
  
Rubbing his temples, Malcolm sighs heavily. His stomach is woefully empty. He can't eat though. All he can think about is the drawer, the countless pictures of Dr. Whitley.   
  
The _cologne_ is in there. He can't help but smile fully when he thinks of it. A real one.  
  
His father had always worn the same cologne, as long as he could remember.  
  
Malcolm had remembered the exact brand, exact scent, how much it was on the market when his father was arrested. How much it was now.   
  
It was his fondest memory of the man, warm hugs and how good he smelled when he held Malcolm after a bad dream.  
  
He stands, picking his cell phone out of his pocket and letting his feet take him to the drawer.   
  
Malcolm sits on the floor in front of the drawer, staring at it. He reaches out, turning the key and pulling it out.  
  
Sticking his arm in the empty cavity, it's eerily reminiscent like the cavity in his chest that formed the night his father was taken.  
  
He pulls out the box, black and plain on the outside. It doesn't reflect what's on the inside.   
  
Feeling his breathing speed up, Malcolm fumbles for his phone. He turns it on, quickly putting his thumb on the home button so it would open.  
  
Opening his music app, he stares blankly at the search bar. His father loved music.   
  
Classical, that is.   
  
They had a piano in their home, and sometimes when Malcolm couldn't sleep he would sit at the bench with Dr. Whitley. He was particularly fond of Igor Stravinsky.  
  
He searches 'prodigal', and many songs come up. Malcolm thinks that first song is quite fitting, until he realizes it's a gospel song.  
  
His lips turn into a sneer. Malcolm absolutely, positively, does not believe in God.  
  
The second song is just the same, and he nearly gives up hope for a geninue song. But, he begins playing the third song, and oh.  
  
Yes, this will do nicely.  
  
The song is quite melancholy, and he listens to the lyrics as he opens the box. It holds much more items and pictures than it looks like it can.  
  
He removes the top layers of mugshots and case files, his eye catching the sight of the list of victims.  
  
Malcolm had blacked out all 23 of their names. (It was possibly 24, 20 years and still the police were uncertain if The Surgeon was connected to the last murder. They were still on the list, though.)   
  
He didn't need a text record of their names to remember them. His mother had engrained it into his mind, their names, their ages, the way they died. Their families..  
  
He sets the papers aside, staring at intimate family pictures and items.  
  
_We say goodbye,_  
  
_ I turn my back,_  
  
_ Run away, run away,_  
  
_ So predictable._   
  
Malcolm's tremoring fingers pick up a photo of just him and his father, taken by a camera set on a timer.   
  
Dr. Whitley is sitting in the foyer of their house, his clothes neat and formal. A young Malcolm sits next to him, holding his father's hand and beaming a huge smile at the camera.  
  
He's missing a front tooth, quite young. His mother is nowhere in the picture.  
  
_Not far from here,_  
  
_ You see me crack._  
  
The next photo is a family photo, himself and his sister sitting next to each other with their parents standing behind them. Each of them has a hand on the children's shoulders.   
  
Malcolm is signficantly older in this picture, a young Ainsley likely being held still with his mother's hand on her shoulder.  
  
Dr. Whitley is mirroring her position, and if Malcolm closes his eyes and thinks he can nearly remember this time. A flash of the camera (a professional photographer, this time) and his mother picking up Ainsley and taking her away.  
  
His father's hand lingering on his shoulder. (_"You did wonderful, my boy.."_) Malcolm's own, tiny hand coming up to touch his fathers and stroke his fingertips over his wide nailbeds.   
  
Turning his head up to mirror his father's smile.   
  
_Like a bone, like a bone,_  
  
_ I'm so **breakable**._  
  
The police were uncertain where Martin Whitley found the time to perform such precise and drawn out murders while being a devout father.   
  
Staring at a (personally laminated) newspaper cutout of his father in a crisp suit at a gala, Malcolm's feels the first sign of tears burning behind his eyes.  
  
Their theory was that most of them happened at his home.  
  
It put a whole new perspective on Malcolm's childhood.  
  
The pain of it caused him to repress most of his memories, and so large chunks of his time with his father were now black, empty space.  
  
Standing in a white lab coat, his father smiles with the rest of his surgical team. Looking so sinister, so appealing.   
  
Malcolm **_despises_** him.   
  
_And I take everything from you,_  
  
_ But you'll take anything,_  
  
_ Won't you?_  
  
The next thing that comes out of the box is a tape recorder, his father's voicemail message at the time of his arrest.   
  
Young Malcolm had taken many, many precautions to save and preserve his father's things. Even as his mother burned and threw them away.  
  
He always preferred it when she threw things away, because Malcolm could retrieve and _hide_ them.

Like he hid everything else.  
  
_Run away, run away,_  
  
_ Like a prodigal,_  
  
_ Don't you wait for me,_  
  
_ Don't you wait for me._  
  
"This is Doctor Martin Whitley. I'm not available to answer the phone right now, I'll get back to you soon enough. If this is a potential or reoccurring patient, my work number is ███."  
  
And here is where the man paused, and Malcolm's favorite part came.  
  
Malcolm had been given a flip phone at a young age, and he often called his father at work. To amuse the young boy, Martin had added an after section to his voicemail.  
  
"If this is Malcolm, hello, my dear boy. I'm quite busy at the moment, and as much as I would love to talk to you, I cannot. If this is urgent, please call your mother. I love you, Malcolm."  
  
Malcolm inhales deeply, memories washing over him. Oh, how he _loved_ his father's voice.  
  
A flush traveled up his neck, to his cheeks. As a teen, he had replayed this segment over and over and over. At 16 years old, Malcolm had experienced his very first orgasm to this tape. Soiling him for life.  
  
The memory of his seed shooting out between his fingertips, his back arching, screaming out as his father told him he loved him.. It never failed to make him _ashamed_.   
  
_So **ashamed**, so **ashamed**,_  
  
_ But I need you so,_  
  
_ And you wait for me,_  
  
_ And you wait for me._  
  
Malcolm dug through the box, pulling out medical papers, tracing his fingertips over the looping signatures of Dr. Whitley.   
  
His father had such wonderful handwriting. He used to think about sending him letters, when they were separated. Anonymous love letters.  
  
Posing as a serial killer superfan, as the copycat had. Without the actual murder of course.  
  
Would his father write back? Would he be _flattered_? Disgusted?  
  
Because Malcolm was disgusted with himself.   
  
However, his father had always defied his expectations.   
  
_ I'm on the road,_  
  
_ To who knows where?_  
  
Malcolm had thrown a _fit_ when his mom signed him into the psych ward. He hadn't wanted to go, wanted to stay home. Think about, obsess over every detail of his father and his life.  
  
Sometimes he still felt like he was throwing that fit. Like he had been stuck in it ever since that moment.  
  
_Look ahead, not behind,_  
  
_ I keep saying._  
  
He had tried to move on with his life after release. It was in vain, he knew now. As he gripped a framed picture of his father, and pressed his trembling lips to the cool glass.  
  
Inside, he was still the boy unable to let go of his obsession. Wearing a faux mask of a successful profiler putting his lineage behind him.   
  
_There's no place to go,_  
  
_ Where you're not there._  
  
Malcolm felt so lost without his father sometimes. His mother was never quite a mother to him, just someone to monitor his medication and sign report cards when he was a child.  
  
Someone to pay for food, and be listed as his emergency contact.  
  
She didn't care for him like his father did. No one ever would. She didn't read him to sleep, tuck him into bed at night. Hold him when he had nightmares.  
  
_No one_ would ever love him like his father did, Malcolm knew this without a doubt.  
  
_On your rope, I hold tight,_  
  
_ But it's freeing._  
  
There were very few moments where Malcolm embraced his attraction to Dr. Whitley with open arms.   
  
Such moments only occurred when he was fully broken down, where an insane smile stretched unnaturally across his face and his body spasmed with involuntary orgasms.  
  
However, while some might view those as his worst moments, in the privacy of his own mind, they were his best. Once his body stopped shaking and all he could do was lie there, flying. Feeling completely free.   
  
Whispering his father's name over and over and **_over_**.   
  
_And I take everything from you,_  
  
_ But you'll take anything,_  
  
_ Won't you?_  
  
Looking at the pictures now, Malcolm realized how alive Dr. Whitley looked in some photos, and how dull his eyes were in others.  
  
His parent's wedding photo was carefully taped back together, after his mother had smashed the frame in a drunken rage. Ripped it into four pieces and left it for more whiskey and Valium.  
  
Malcolm had repaired it, just to look at his father looking so very handsome in his suit.   
  
Malcolm **_loved_** him. Malcolm **_loved_** him so much his heart _broke_ into a million pieces, just like the frame had.   
  
He hadn't wanted to keep his mother in the picture, but he had. Out of guilt.  
  
He vividly remembers drawing a picture of himself in a similar looking one, wondering what it would be like when he got married.  
  
Now, all the profiler thought of was if they would wear similar suits.   
  
Malcolm rolls his eyes at himself. He would never get married. Because the one person he would ever want to was locked up in a cell, (more of a room now) never to be released.  
  
** Besides, no one married their own father.**  
  
_Run away, run away_  
  
_ Like a prodigal,_  
  
_ Don't you wait for me,_  
  
_ Don't you wait for me,_  
  
_ So **ashamed**, so **ashamed**,_  
  
_ But I need you so_  
  
_ And you wait for me,_  
  
_ And you wait for me._  
  
This was his new favorite song, Malcolm decided. His head tilted back to the ceiling, silent tears dripping down his cheeks. Cock hard against his thigh.   
  
He _needed_ his father. Like any son. But he needed him in other ways, more than a son should. He was **_disgusted_** with himself, **_ashamed_** beyond belief.  
  
And yet, he couldn't stop. He would always be waiting for him.   
  
_Everybody wants to be right_  
  
_ But only if it's not day light?_  
  
_ I keep trying to find my way back,_  
  
_ My way back._  
  
Looking back down into the box, his heart skipped several beats as he pulls a sweater out of the bottom. His wet eyes glaze over as memories take over.  
  
Living in New York all his life, Malcolm had been taught to always stay warm. One of the many life lessons his father taught him.  
  
Dr. Whitley had always ran cold, Malcolm remembered fondly. Always wearing a sweater or a warm undershirt underneath his doctor's coat.  
  
_Run away, run away,_  
  
_ Like a prodigal,_  
  
_ Don't you wait for me,_  
  
_ Don't you wait for me,_  
  
_ So **ashamed**, so **ashamed**,_  
  
_ But I need you so._  
  
_ And you wait for me,_  
  
_ And you wait for me._  
  
After his father had been caught, his mother was dead set on destroying his things. Practically ripping his wooden dresser to pieces, throwing his beloved sweaters into trash bags.   
  
Small Malcolm, watching her do it, was sobbing. Snot running down his chin.   
  
"_What if he gets cold, Mommy? We have to bring him his sweaters if he gets cold!_" He remembers saying, tiny shoulders shaking with tears grief.  
  
His mother had looked furious, grabbing his by his shoulders. Her sharp nails digging into his shirt.   
  
"_Let him freeze, Malcolm! Stop crying. **You are never going to see your father again**. He's a horrible man_." This only upset him more, and she let go of him as Ainsley stood in the doorway, rubbing her eyes from interrupted sleep.  
  
Jessica went to her daughter and scooped her up, leaving Malcolm on his own.  
  
Like always.  
  
The poor boy threw himself to the ground, hobbling over to the bags and pulling out a bright yellow sweater. Pressing his face into it and soaking the wool with tears. Inhaling shakily and smelling his father's cologne.  
  
Malcolm, in the present, was in a similar position. Holding the exact same sweater, which he had saved and hidden as a child.  
  
Sobbing into the fabric as the song kept playing. Trying to remember the warmth of his father, his scent.  
  
It had faded long ago, along with the love his father showed him, his steadfast presence in his life.  
  
Blindly digging through the bag with one hand, the other holding the sweater to his face, Malcolm stops when he feels smooth glass hit his fingertips.  
  
He pulls the fabric away, tears blurring his vision as he stares at the bottle of cologne.   
  
Furiously spraying the sweater, holding it away from him, Malcolm gingerly places the bottle in the box, reclining and laying on his back.   
  
Placing the yellow thing, worn with grief and love, on his face. Eyes rolling back, mind going blank, mouth falling open. As he smelled his father again.   
  
**_I love you, Father. I love you so much. Please love me. Please love me. I love you. I love you. I love you like a son shouldn't. Please, please, please. Love me._**  
  
_Runaway,_  
  
_ Runaway,_  
  
_ Runaway,_  
  
_ From you,_  
  
_ From you,_  
  
_ F r o m y o u . . ._  



	4. 4 - Episodes and Visitations (Interlude 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm has a difficult morning, and an even worse afternoon, giving his father a domestic visit.
> 
> His walls are breaking down, and his father is finding more and more ways to weasel his way back into his heart.
> 
> Not that he ever left, of course.
> 
> Martin is a jealous prat, unable to handle the thought of Malcolm being close to another man. His son is going to be in trouble when it comes down to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I know I said I wasn't going to update until Tuesday, but I couldn't help myself! Someone wrote a drabble for this pairing, and it was the person who gave me my first comment. I love you, Malivrag!
> 
> I briefly touched on the idea of Malcolm having involuntary orgasms in the last chapter, but I've always planned on this being a key story element due to his psychosis.
> 
> We get our first mention of Sunshine the canary here, and a semi-long fantasy sequence intermixed with reality.
> 
> Malcolm heads on over to see his dad, and they share some banter and some backstory (obviously, what do you expect?) Our boy gives daddy a gift and high-tails it out of there. Martin becomes jealous of Gil, and evil plots are a-brewing!
> 
> What do you guys think of the story so far? Too much, too little? Do you think Malcolm should call Martin Daddy when they get intimate, or is that too much?
> 
> I, of course, have my own opinions, but I'm striving to please the fandom after realizing more people enjoy this ship than I thought! I honestly thought I would be the only one enjoying this, but :P
> 
> Please give me your thoughts. I obsessively check the comments after I've released a chapter, and I always strive to reply to every single one. Ily guys. 
> 
> \- OP

Malcolm woke up screaming, like he usually did. His teeth protectors were wet with spit, and his face was _soaked_ with sweat.  
  
He was pulling at his restraints like a wild man, legs furiously kicking and hips moving like he was being killed.  
  
He quickly found out he was screaming for a whole different reason than a nighmare. These screams were not ones of fear.  
  
They were of pure _pleasure_, his naked cock jumping and pulsing. He wakes ejaculating, body involuntarily orgasming in his sleep and waking him up.  
  
Malcolm is used to his body going through this, though the pure pleasure of it never dies down even after years of it occurring.  
  
It was an embarrassing topic to bring up with his doctor, the fact that he sometimes had orgasms he couldn't control.  
  
After a multitude of tests, and several psychiatrists (_it was a formality at this point_), it was concluded that he did not have PGAD.  
  
This was a relief to him, but a frustration to his doctors, as they couldn't quite explain why this was happening.  
  
Malcolm had his own theories, of course. (_99% of them relating to his father_) It had been concluded that it had to relate to his multiple diagnosis. (_Schizoaffective, frequent dissociation, severe insomnia, night terrors that bled into reality.. the list went on and on and on._)  
  
Something in his brain wasn't quite right, in his punishment and pleasure centers. This doesn't surprise him in the least, it was probably why he enjoyed being whipped so much.  
  
Neurons that were supposed to cross didn't, and ones that were supposed to connect were far from each other.  
  
These involuntary ejaculation's didn't start until his body had learned how to voluntarily have one, at 16. Even after that, they stayed until latent until he was in the psych ward.  
  
He doesn't remember much of what led up to it, but when he tries to remember he gets flashes of his father wrapping him in a warm towel after a bath and hugging him intimately.  
  
What followed was the most humiliating experience in his life, his body spasming wildly on his tiny, twin bed.  
  
His roommate running out of the room in panic and screaming to the nurses that he was having a seizure. Malcolm's mouth open in a scream of esctasy.  
  
The nurses had been so alarmed. Malcolm almost wished they hadn't come in, to save him from their horrified faces.  
  
After it had ended, his mother had to be brought in for questioning and answers alike. And then testing began.  
  
He was asked countless times if he had been sexually abused as a child, which he answered with a hard no each time.  
  
His mother constantly asked him if his father ever _touched_ him, looked at him _funny_, or took _strange pictures_ of him.  
  
Malcolm refused to talk to her for a solid 3 months after that.  
  
(_When he did speak again, he didn't mention how he had hoped his father would look at him with a more than fatherly glance, would ask Malcolm to take his pants off and **bend over**.._)  
  
In the present (_almost a decade later_) at 30 Malcolm was still experiencing his 'episodes' as his mother cleverly called them.  
  
If she or his doctor's ever asked, they had stopped at 18, when he lost his virginity.  
  
(_This was a double lie, as Malcolm lost his virginity, 9 years prior, at 21. It was to a male dominant who whipped and fucked him so severely he could barely walk_.)  
  
Now, his body shaking violently on his large bed, Malcolm regarded his condition. It was a blessing and a curse.  
  
They trapped him in a vortex of such intense pleasure he almost always began to cry. They often brought up memories of Martin Whitly that he cherished closely to his heart after the episode had ended.  
  
But they also _hurt_. **_Immensely_**. More often than not, it was full body orgasms, one after the other. He was always left sore afterwards. His mind was running a thousand miles a minute, memories flashing in front of his eyes.  
  
However, all he could truly process right now was unfiltered pleasure. Malcolm wants to spit his teeth protectors out, but he knew his teeth could begin chattering and grinding uncontrollably.  
  
However, if they were out he could scream his father's name more clearly.   
  
He was attempting to, but it sounded quite pathetic with the lisp the plastic caused.  
  
Right now, 'Martin' sounded more like 'Marvin', which was good for Malcolm if anyone were to hear him and understand what was happening.

Which was unlikely, as his apartment was a penthouse that he had bought with his family's wealth. Technically his mother owned the building, but.. 

He's not thinking about that at the moment. His legs shake violently, as he sobs and wonders when everything went so wrong.  
  
Sunshine, his beloved canary, was chirping loudly in her cage. Confused as to what was happening as his muffled screams echo in the apartment.  
  
Malcolm struggles, moving his hands and pressing hard on the buttons on the inside of his retraints, releasing him.  
  
His entire genitalia was tingling like when a limb fell asleep, except it was so much more intense. His anal muscles were clenching rhymthically, and his fingers immediately come up to his mouth. Trying to get them wet.  
  
Malcolm sticks a fingertip inside of himself, the orgasm crashing down harder as he feels the rhymthic pulsing around his finger. Curling the digit, sobbing at the light burn and stretch.  
  
The first time Malcolm had experienced anal, he had hurtled so far into subspace that he had a flashback to the night his father was arrested.  
  
He knew he must have orgasmed when he came out of it, because his entire front was wet. Immediately, the boy began crying and safeworded out. Thankfully, he had a very understanding dominant who helped him through his drop.  
  
After that, Malcolm was very wary of anything involving anal. Even regular examinations gave him panic attacks.  
  
Thankfully, in the past 4 years he has been able to touch himself without dissociation. This allowed him to massage his prostate and feel the pleasure it gave him.  
  
_Just a fingertip feels so good_, Malcolm thinks wearily. He loves feeling just a little bit full, like this.  
  
His entire stomach is coated in semen, and as his balls tense and rise once more, he knows he's almost done.  
  
It's a relief when his penis finally softens and stops twitching. He's so sore there. His finger enters himself fully, and he rolls onto his side, grimacing as seed drips down his body onto his sheets.  
  
It wasn't a pleasant feeling, but in this position he could pleasure himself fully and reach his supplies.  
  
Malcolm stretches, pulling out a container of lube and slicking three of his fingers. He wishes he had his father's voicemail, so he could hear him say he loved him.  
  
For now, all Malcolm had was his fantasies. Which were quite vivid.  
  
One of his favorites conjures in his mind.  
  
**He's visiting his father, in his old cell. The bars separating them. His father is clad in bright orange. It brings out his eyes wonderfully.**  
  
**Teenage Malcolm presents his father with the same container of lube, averting his gaze and blushing when his father gives him a predatory smirk.**  
  
_ "Father.. I need your help. I.. I can't reach it."_  
  
**His father gives him an understanding smile. His fear is melted away immediately.**  
  
_"Of course. I would do anything to help you, my dear boy. I love you so."_  
  
_"I love you too, Father."_  
  
Malcolm finally spits his mouth guard out, mouthing "I love you" to himself. Tears uncontrollably streaming down his face.  
  
**In his fantasy, he pulls down his pants and underwear, turning and presenting himself to his father. Handing him the lubricant through the bars.**  
  
In reality, the broken man shoves two fingers inside of himself, up to the second knuckle. He howls in pain. It hurts. So badly. The burn is almost unbearable.  
  
But he wants it to hurt. He _deserves_ the pain.  
  
_"Not so loud, Malcolm."_

**His father whispers, pressed up against the bars as his fingers slide in deeper, _deeper_.**

_"The guards will hear."_  
  
Malcolm sobs and moans into his sweat soaked pillow, his lanky fingers twisting inside of him. _"I want them to hear, Father. I want everyone to kno-o-ow_!"  
  
He finds his prostate, voice warbling in pleasure. His eyes roll back into his head. It's not true. It's not true.

..It is, though. He wants to be proud of the dark feelings inside of him. He wants to be **dirty**.   
  
_ "Oh, Malcolm. My dear boy. Have you been practicing? You're taking it so very deep this time.. So well, my boy. Sucking me in."_

His father always speaks so dirty, brings all of Malcolm's demented thoughts to the surface.  
  
He nods viciously, unable to form any words. Just agreeing. Doing anything and everything his fantasy father tells him.  
  
_"Pinch your nipples, my boy. I know how much you like that. They always used to get hard when I gave you baths. Did you know that? Hm?"_  
  
He squeezes his nipple so hard it feels like it's going to fall off. He doesn't care. Malcolm is hard again.  
  
_"You could never hide anything from me, Malcolm. Even. When. You. Didn't. Know. It. Yourself. I always did."_  
  
His own.. no, **his father's **pace is brutal. The sound of the rest of his hand hitting his skin is deafening. He thrusts with every word, his little hole sore and sensitive.  
  
He's hyperventilating, tears running down his cheeks. Swollen lips parting, voice rising as he ruthlessly fucks himself with his fingers.

"I'm going to cum._ I'm going to cum, Father._ I'm going to cum while you _fuck me._"  
  
His father laughs, the sound ringing through his head.  
  
_"Oh, Malcolm. I'm not fucking you. Yet."_  
  
And here is his cue. Despite his sore penis and hole, he wants more. Needs more. Like he'll go completely insane without it. 

More than he already has, anyway.  
  
He scrambles, pulling his fingers out and hissing in pain. Malcolm goes for his end stand again (where he had gotten the lubricant) and pulls the drawer out, digging through it.  
  
His fingertips hit smooth silicone, and he stops, pulling the object out.  
  
The profiler's face turns bright red as he holds the dildo in his hand, slamming the drawer shut and getting comfortable.  
  
Closing his eyes, slicking the sizeable toy up.  
  
Back in the cell, his father's prison pants are around his ankles. Cock hard, already slick for his.. for his son. His cock pokes through the bars. Ready for Malcolm to penetrate himself on it.  
  
_God_, Malcolm thinks. _I'm so fucked up._  
  
What does his Father's penis look like? He wonders lucidly. Would he go fast? Slow? Look him in eye the whole time, speak filthy words? Or would he look away, ashamed?  
  
No, he wouldn't be ashamed. Martin Whitly was never ashamed about anything, not even when his heinous crimes were made public.  
  
_"Father, we shouldn't do this. Someone is going to come in."_

He quietly says the word along with his false self, having long memorized the script of this particular fantasy.  
  
_"Shh, Malcolm. No one is going to see us. No one is going to know. Except for you, and me. I know you much you want this, Malcolm."_  
  
The soft head of the dildo presses against his hole, and Malcolm groans, long and loud, as he teases himself.  
  
_"I want it, too."_  
  
He shouts as he shoves it inside, not stopping even when his muscles lock up and try to force it out.   
  
"Oh, Father! Yes!" His back arches, and he makes his legs spread out. Makes himself take it.

If he doesn't take it, he won't ever have another chance..!  
  
It slides in home, and his jaw drops open, mouth wide.  
  
_"Ah, Malcolm.. yes, my good boy. Open for me.. take it all.. inside..!"_

His father _wants_ to be in control, but there's little he can do from his cell. Malcolm has to push back on it. As he fucks himself, his father holds onto the prison bars, humping his son like an _animal_.  
  
The bars would shake loudly, as the doctor fought to get deeper.  
  
His father's teeth would be gritted. Like they were when he did a particularly difficult surgery, or when (Malcolm imagined) he _took a life__._  
  
Malcolm doesn't last long at all, unable to get another line from his fantasy out before he's having a prostate stimulated orgasm.  
  
His mind goes completely blank, and he feels like he's _flying_. Wrapped in his father's warm embrace, their lips interlocked.  
  
He feels exhausted when he floats back down, pulling the toy loose from his body. Getting up and staring blankly in the mirror on top of his dresser.  
  
Malcolm feels like an empty husk, nothing left inside of him. A shell of who he once was.  
  
It's a much better feeling that being full of conflicting feelings that he couldn't decipher, in all actuality. Being empty is better than being full of pain.  
  
He sighs, padding over to Sunshine's cage. The semen has dried on his body, and his birdy had stopped chirping somewhere along the line.  
  
He refills her water and her bowl with seed, heading to the bathroom to take a shower.  
  
Scrub and wash away the sin from his skin. Try to wash it from his mind.  
  
However, it never seemed to work. No matter how hard he scrubbed. Go figure.

* * *

After getting out of what felt like the longest shower of his life and changing his sheets, Malcolm gets dressed. Ready to go out. He sits on the edge of his clean, impeccable bed.

Looking at it, you couldn't tell he had been tossing and turning with nightmares for hours.

What should he do today..?  
  
He could go visit his mother, or his sister. Return the profiles to Gil, have a drink with him. Feed the ducks in Central Park.

Maybe even get some profiling work down.   
  
Even as he considers these options, Malcolm _knows_ that he's not going to choose any of them.  
  
He stands, going to a dark oak bookshelf on the right side of his room and looking through his novels. He plucks an old copy of Peter Pan from the shelves, staring at him.  
  
One of his favorite stories as a child. His father read it to him regularly.  
  
He takes the book with him, heading out of his bedroom into his work office.  
  
Would his father like to have a photo of him? He was never allowed to bring his father things as a child, as he was in Prison, but now that he was in a Psychological Unit..  
  
His room reminded him of his Father's old work room, which he had seen very few times. As it was where he did most of his "_unorthodox experiments_" as he called them, Malcolm was never allowed in.  
  
However, when he did see it, it was very.. doctor-y and impersonal. Martin's room_ now_ looked very impersonal. He had no photos, besides the anatomical sketches in his journals.  
  
Malcolm had an instinct to fix that. And if the guards wouldn't let him..  
  
He could always bribe his way in. It was New York City, after all.  
  
Gil had taken several photos of him across the years, including ones when he joined the FBI and rejoined the NYPD.  
  
His father didn't know him much as an adult, and maybe it would be nice to have a record of what he looked like now.  
  
He was even sure he had one where he was smiling. Would Martin enjoy that? Or would he laugh in Malcolm's face, tease him about it? He didn't know.  
  
Picking out several photos, he grabs a handful of paper clips as well, shoving them in his pocket as he held the photos on top of the book.  
  
Going to the front room, he sets the book and photos down to get to the hidden box, rifling through in until he found a childhood picture of himself.  
  
He was the sole model in it, roughly 6 or 7 years of age. Dressed up as Peter Pan for Halloween. Looking as happy as a peach.  
  
This is the only photo he wishes to keep, so he sets it aside and hides the box once more, pressing the drawer in until it looks like all the other ones.  
  
Heading back to the office, he runs it under the copier cuts it out, intricately adhesives it to some white cardstock so it would be sturdy.  
  
Stares at it with a dopey smile. He was so happy when his dad dressed him up that Halloween. He got so much candy, and his father let him eat until his stomach felt like it was going to burst.  
  
He returns to the front room, opening the book and putting the photos in the front, on the title page.  
  
Malcolm grabs the book, putting his coat on and wrapping a scarf around his neck.  
  
The place where his father resided was a 30 minute walk from his home, which was much better than the Prison. He looked forward to the fresh air.  
  
_Papa was a rolling stone.._

* * *

When he arrived at the building, it was roughly mid-afternoon. He went through security and glared at the guards as they checked the book, making sure he wasn't hiding anything in it.  
  
They handed it back to him, and one of them escorted him to his Father's room. The escort tried to make small talk with him, but quickly stopped when Malcolm glared at them.  
  
Malcolm watched them unlock the door, and stepped inside. Hearing them close the door behind him.  
  
Martin Whitly was sitting on the tiny, metal bed on the right of his room. One of his journals open in his lap. A thin pair of reading glasses perched on his nose, an elegant pencil in his hand. Writing.  
  
He looked up as the door open and shut, and his mouth opened as he saw his son standing there.  
  
"Malcolm." He said in surprise, closing the journal and setting it down on his bed with his pencil as he stood up. The tether of his ankle cuffs pulling "I.. I wasn't expecting you."  
  
Malcolm hides a smirk, stepping forward. "Dr. Whitly," He says in greeting. "Yes, I was.. in the area, and I figured.. well, I _am_ your only connection to the outside world."  
  
Martin grins, sitting back down on the edge of his bed. "In the area?" He raises an eyebrow, giving his son a knowing glance. "Well, good lad, then. Visiting your father in the middle of your busy, busy detective life."  
  
His son rolls his eyes and snorts a bit. It's adorable, in Martin's humble opinion. "Oh, _so_ busy."  
  
Malcolm's heart is giving him a run for his money, just standing in his Father's presence. There was no way he could make his look like anything but a domestic visit.  
  
If Gil, or (god forbid) his mother ever found out, he would be _killed_ for sure.  
  
Maybe that was why he was so giddy. He liked the danger of it all.  
  
There really _was_ something wrong with him.  
  
Martin takes his glasses off, folding them neatly next to him. "Well, come sit, my boy. You look so tired." He pats the space next to him, his face falling as he sees Malcolm sneer.  
  
"I'm fine, really." However, Malcolm goes and sits in the fold out chair in the corner. Crossing his legs elegantly. Making Martin smile.  
  
Malcolm sighs, and his father greedily takes in the sight of his chest rising and falling. "So.. how are they treating you in this place?" He asks coldly.  
  
His boy _cares so much about him_, even now.  
  
Martin gets a sick glee from it, knowing that nothing had really, truly changed.  
  
Malcolm could hide behind glares and sighs all he wanted, but he was still the babe that wrapped his tiny fingers around Martin's fingers and came to him crying about nightmares.  
  
Oh, how he loved his boy so.  
  
"Much better than the last place, I can assure you. Meals come at the same time every day, and a psychiatrist sees me once a week."  
  
The profiler decides to not pay attention to the specifics, instead honing in on why his place of residence had changed.  
  
"Yeah.. whatever happened to the prison, anyway? Why did you get moved?"  
  
Here, Dr. Whitley had the decency to look a bit thrown off guard, bashful even. "Well, you see.." He started off, and Malcolm's heart dropped to his stomach like a stone.  
  
"What did you do?"  
  
"Nothing! Nothing too bad, really, Malcolm. Don't you expect better of me?" The doctor ran his fingertips through his thick beard, a nervous tick Malcolm noticed over the years.  
  
"_No_. Not really." His father winced at his tundra tone. That one hurt. "Tell me what happened. Everything. You know I can tell when you're lying."  
  
"_Well_.." His fingers itched at his face. Another nervous tick. Malcolm was glad that he had an excuse to stare at him.  
  
"You stopped visiting after you told me you were joining the FBI.. I was quite crushed by this, you see." The truth was, right before his 17th birthday, Malcolm had stopped showing up.  
  
This panicked Martin immensely. His son _did_ end up coming back, but the visits were drastically different. Less frequent, and his son was _cold_. No longer responded to his carefully planned flirting.  
  
And then the _fiasco_ with FBI.. and then.. nothing. He had thrown quite the tantrum.  
  
"I kept trying to call you, but the guards stopped letting me after.. err, four months or so. They said you weren't ever going to answer or come back, that I should stop trying. It would cost me less."  
  
His father tried to laugh, but it was a bitter sound. Malcolm's eyes were sad as he stared at him.  
  
"I had stopped eating. They had to have someone come in and force me to eat. There was a particular woman.. She reminded me of your mother, you see." Martin's hands twisted in his thin bed sheets.  
  
"One day, she was so persistent to get me to eat. She started goading me about you, trying to get a reaction from me." Oh, no. This wasn't going to go well, Malcolm felt.  
  
"I.. grabbed her wrist, and the plastic fork from the tray, and told her very firmly.. If she wasn't going to shut up about my son like that anytime soon, **I would dissect her open for all to see with the fork.**"

Malcolm hissed air in through teeth, trying to ignore how his cheeks _burned_ at his father's confession.  
  
Dr. Whitley defended his honor.. wrongly, with murder, but still.. It did things to him. Made his stomach fluttery and his heart beat loudly in his ears.  
  
"I was transferred here the next morning. Everyone's been right as rain ever since." Looking up from his lap, Martin noticed his son's condition.  
  
A manic grin would have overtaken his face if Malcolm wasn't staring so keenly at him. The boy was flattered. By his father threatening a woman for him.  
  
Oh, he could, would do so much more for him. If Malcolm asked, Martin would corner one of the nurses here, and cut their heart out.. place the still beating, bloody organ into his son's hands and snog him senseless.  
  
But. He had to act oblivious.  
  
"Malcolm.. are you upset with me?"  
  
Malcolm blinks hard at his name, finding himself. He needs to respond. Without sounding desperate.  
  
"What you did _was_ wrong, Dr. Whitley. You should have never resorted to violence," Here, his father opened his mouth to retort. Malcolm went on. "_Just_ threatening or not."  
  
His father looked put off. Good.  
  
"...Still." Dr. Whitley perked up like a puppy seeing a treat. "She had no right to talk about.. family matters. You did what you thought was right. And no one was hurt, so.."  
  
He trails off.  
  
His father looks like the cat who's caught the canary. That look does too many things to him, and he turns his gaze to the doctor's bookshelves, where he kept his journals.  
  
"I thought.. I thought you wouldn't care I was gone."  
  
When he looks back, Dr. Whitley looks forlorn. _Depressed_ even. His voice is soft and loving when he speaks, though. It warms Malcolm to his core.  
  
"You are _my son_, Malcolm. My sole pride and joy. Over all. My profession, my, my _hobby_. None of it amounts to you, my boy. **You are everything to me**."  
  
Malcolm inhales unsteadily, standing abruptly. This was getting too close for comfort. His walls were crumbling, and if this went on he would break and his confession would fall from his lips.  
  
"I- I have to go." He says, turning to leave. Stopping at the sound of Martin's tether, remembering himself.  
  
"Here. This.. This is for you." A book is pressed into his hands. **Peter Pan; or, the Boy Who Wouldn't Grow Up.**  
  
Martin looks up, beaming smile, ready to thank his son. It falls short when he sees he has already left, the guards shutting the door behind him.  
  
_Literally_ running away, his coat trailing behind him as it fluttered in the wind of the hallway.  
  
Martin sits down on his bed, touching the cover of the novel fondly. He would read this book to Malcolm, front to back, over and over again. It was his favorite as a child.  
  
He pushes his glasses back on, opening it and getting ready to read when he stopped.  
  
A picture of young Malcolm, all dressed up in his Peter Pan costume, all smiles. Martin's heart swells, and he strokes the photo tenderly.  
  
There are several other photos, all of Malcolm as an adult. His son is so very handsome. He must be very popular with men, Martin thinks. That simply _mustn't do._  
  
A **growl** rips out of his throat when he gets to the last photo, a picture of his son with an older, Filipino man. He recognizes him. It was the police officer he was planning to kill. The one Malcolm called, that night.  
  
Martin cannot remember his name.  
  
The other man has an arm around his boy's shoulder, holding him close as they smile for the camera.  
  
Why is he there? Why is he touching his son? Why does Malcolm look so _goddamn happy_?  
  
Hands shaking, Martin fights the urge to rip the photo. He has no _right_, touching what is rightfully _his_.  
  
That.. That _scoundrel_ **hadn't formed Malcolm from his very seed,** he didn't _deserve_ to have his _dirty hands_ all over him!  
  
Furious, he puts the photo to the side, though he wants to throw it to the ground. Anything with Malcolm in it was sacred to him, even if it featured that man.  
  
He focuses on the photo of Malcolm himself, bringing it to his face and kissing the portrait tenderly.  
  
His boy could be so _mischievous_, fraternizing with the enemy. But Martin Whitley loved him so much his heart would burst.  
  
There would be **hell** to pay, once he got the truth out of his son.


	5. 5 - Martin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you all know, I've been anxiously awaiting this episode!! I started freaking out when I watched the sneak peek and saw that Martin was calling Malcom :'). Excuse me while I sob. 
> 
> What did you guys think of this episode? Did you love it as much as I did?!
> 
> We finally learned that Sunshine is a parakeet, not a canary like I originally thought. Oops!
> 
> We also got a better look at Malcolm's restraints which are WAY different than what I described, so I have to go fix that.
> 
> The Prodigal Son Twitter posted a gif of Martin calling Malcolm with the caption "Obsessed much"? Which is great, because that means I'm kind of understanding his character more!
> 
> Martin was brutal in this episode. We finally saw him crack and show his true colors! He was loving and caring to Malcolm one minute, and cruel and degrading the next. His character is so complex and interesting to me, I need to nail him for this fic to be good.
> 
> While there was a lot of Malcolm content in this episode, I'm going to try to focus on Martin in this chapter. Malcolm's POV will come at a later date, I wanted to get this up first.
> 
> All the support I've been getting is baffling because the original plot for this seemed like a fever dream I came up with after watching the first episode.
> 
> I've enjoyed interacting with all of you, learning your thoughts and hashing out plot details 💗

From 9:00 AM to 5:00 PM patients were allowed to have phone time.  
  
Martin didn't use this privilege before, as he had stopped trying to call Malcolm after his transfer from the prison.  
  
But now.. now he could talk to his son! Whenever he wanted. From 9 to 5, of course. A bit of sweet talk, nentioning his son worked with the NYPD, and a compliment had Martin everything he could want.  
  
Because he was such a "high risk patient", they brought the phone to him.  
  
He didn't even have to move! Martin could read and write while being on the phone all he wanted. From the comfort of his own cell.  
  
He had planned on calling Malcolm that morning, to speak and cherish his boy's voice.   
  
However, his thoughts became much more interesting, much less _perverted_ when the morning paper was delivered.  
  
Dr. Whitly glances up from the paper, at the guard sitting in the corner. David, his nametag said. He smiles, pointing with his free hand to the television poised above the phone.  
  
"Do you mind turning it to the news, David? I do believe my daughter is on at the moment."  
  
Martin sits back as his guard does as asked, raising his eyebrows as his daughter was indeed reporting. A quadruple homicide, huh. How intriguing.  
  
Malcolm was probably already on the case.  
  
Just a bit longer until he could call Malcolm, ask him about this quadruple murder. How exciting, killing four people at once.   
  
It had always been much too risky for Martin himself, but he silently applauded the person who pulled off such an act.  
  
Of course, when he talked to his son, he would act indifferent. Horrified, even. Martin smirks, setting the paper to the side.   
  
Picking up the Peter Pan book and running his fingers over the cover idly as he watched Ainsley speak with another person on the news channel.  
  
"Ring my son, please, David." The doctor requests, smiling politely as the guard dials for him.  
  
"Hello?" His son answered quickly. He must already be doing work for the case.  
  
"Malcolm, my boy, it's dad!" The book rested on top of his crossed legs, his finger intertwined with each other and moving as he spoke. A grin on his face.  
  
"_What_? How the hell do you have a phone?" His son sounded baffled at the concept, and it was hard not to beam like the cat who caught the canary. He was so very proud of his manipulations of the staff here.  
  
Really, it was almost too easy.   
  
"Oh, I don't, I have "_phone time_." A critical distinction. My calls had been exclusively reserved for my medical consultations, but I was able to pull a few strings to help the NYPD and their newest profiler.." He teased lightly, like it was a private joke. Both proud and resentful of his son's occupation.   
  
Martin placed his feet on the floor and moved the rolling chair side to side without disturbing the base.   
  
"Sooo, I heard about this quadruple homicide." He crooned, sounding entirely too smug and comfortable.. Martin whistles, tapping the side of his left leg as he spoke.  
  
"That's quite a story." He says conversationally, trying to get more information on the case. Figure out where he was, what he was doing.  
  
A silence follows, and then his son asked him very meek voice, "How do you even know I'm _here_?"  
  
To the outside eye, Martin would look very surprised at this question. But the devil inside of him was roaring with triumph, proud at successfully manipulating his son into telling him his whereabouts.   
  
"Oh- my, you're actually on the scene?!" He rocked forward, sitting up higher in his chair. Pointing to the television. "Oh, that's great! Go, go stand behind your sister- go on, I bet I'll be able to spot you." Martin grins at the concept, wishing he could see Malcolm.  
  
Yes, he had his picture. But it wasn't the same as seeing him move, seeing his eyes dart around and his brilliant mind work.  
  
"_No_." His son shuts him down, sounding dark and irritated now.  
  
Perhaps he got too excited.  
  
"No, oh, you're busy. Of course. I get it." He sat back, hands folding neatly in his lap. Getting quieter.   
  
Closing his eyes for a brief moment.  
  
"So, tell me about the bodies." Martin says, trying to sound casual. But sounding all too excited. It had been so long since he saw a corpse, a crime scene. He so craved the art of it.   
  
"Every killer leaves their.. own unique signature." His face scrunched for a moment, a tick he had developed. Martin dearly missed placing his signature. It was always his favorite part of the murder process.  
  
"Now, I want to hear all the details." He inhales sharply, his hands coming up to fold at his stomach. Scrunching his eyes shut and unfolding them, holding them up.   
  
"I want to really," Martin sniffles, mind coming up with thousands of possibilities, each one messier than the last. "Be able to see it in my head."  
  
"I don't need your help." His son said slowly, enunciating each syllable. Martin couldn't help but inwardly preen. Oh, Malcolm. How wrong he was..  
  
His eyes opened, smile turning into a slight frown. "Oh, don't be a killjoy. I have so much to offer." Martin changes his relaxed stance, sitting forward. As if to get closer to the phone, let his words sink in deeper.  
  
Like knives, corrupting Malcolm's thoughts.  
  
"We're both obsessed with murder; like father like son."   
  
He expects a response, but all he gets is a dial tone.  
  
His smile falls immediately.   
  
"Call back, David." He orders, voice cold as he brings his fingers up to his chin. Resting them there. Glaring at the phone.  
  
The calls go on all day. From 9 to 5, without any breaks. David is becoming irritated with him, but Martin doesn't care. He wants to speak to his son.  
  
"Hello, Malcolm, it's dad-"   
  
"Hey, kiddo, it's your father again-"  
  
"Hello, Malcolm, it's your dad. I heard more about the case. Ooh. Gruesome stuff. Anyways, if you want to bounce around some ideas, give me a call."  
  
"Dad here. I have thoughts on the case."  
  
"I respect that you're conflicted about picking up, but as Oscar Wilde said, "The only way to fight temptation is to yield to it."  
  
"Remember Bradford Bishop? Killed five members of his family in '76 and was never caught? I've always wondered.."  
  
"Dad again. It's almost 4:30."  
  
"Hey, kiddo, it's your father. Sun's beginning to set."  
  
"Dad here. I really would like to speak with you."  
  
His irritation grows and grows, slowly building up after every failed call.   
  
"Sir, I really think-" David tries to tell him, and Martin turns his withering gaze onto the guard.  
  
"I _do not care_ what you think, David. This is between my son and I. No one else. Call again. _Now_."  
  
He tightens his fist, knuckles cracking and David calls and the voicemail ("Bright here.") rings once more.  
  
"I really would like to speak with you. You sounded tired on the phone. You know, maybe I can help with that."  
  
"I don't know. Help with anything. **I JUST WANT TO HELP, DAMN IT!**" Martin started off sounding calm, but he quickly descended into screaming, standing up and going towards the phone, his tether pulling him back at the last moment.   
  
It's like a switch flipped, completely normal one moment and homicidal the next. The sign of a true psychopath.  
  
David stood up, much taller than him. Glaring down at him. Martin falters, stepping back.   
  
"Well, Malcolm, phone time is ending for the day. A total bust. Thanks for that." Martin sighs, squeezing the top of his nose, feeling a killer headache coming along.  
  
"Well, hopefully we can speak tomorrow. Goodbye, my boy." The phone clicks off. Martin is left feeling jarringly empty. And angry. So, so very angry. 

* * *

The doctor doesn't sleep well that night, worry and anger eating away at him. Why didn't Malcolm answer his calls? Sure, he had asked about the bodies, but his son knew him well enough to know his obsession with corpses.

So it couldn't be that.. What could it be?  
  
Martin doesn't get an answer until the next day.   
  
He rises with heavy bags under his eyes, feeling fatigued and having even less answers than before. No one could make him so exhilarated and bothered at the same time.  
  
Malcolm was the _only one._  
  
After his outburst yesterday, the doctors are refusing to let him see Malcolm without handcuffs around his wrists. It's quite an unnecessary precaution.   
  
He would _never_ hurt his boy.   
  
Well, with his _hands_, anyway..  
  
As custom, Martin puts his back to the door as his son enters. Turning and smiling at his exhausted, pretty face.  
  
"Malcolm! You got my messages. Come, let's solve a murder." He says eagerly, only to have his son hold up a hand, stopping him.  
  
"There's only one thing I want from you, and that's the _truth_. Tell me what you did to me." Martin sighs, bringing his rolling chair over and sitting down in it.   
  
"All right, take a seat. Ask me anything." His son complied, and while Martin was incredibly on edge, he felt calmed by his son following his orders.  
  
"I've been remembering things about my childhood."  
  
"Good things?"  
  
"The girl in the box." Alarm ran through Martin, though he displayed an outward expression of indifference. Had he remembered?  
  
"After I found her, did you drug me so I wouldn't call the police?"   
  
The doctor deflected, twisting his expression into one of concern to hide his alarm. "Malcolm, when was the last time you slept through the night?"  
  
"You used _chloroform_, didn't you? On a _ten year old."_  
  
Martin swallowed heavily, scratching at his arm nervously.   
  
They make it look so easy in the movies, but it's tricky stuff, you know? The wrong dose can easily kill you," Malcolm opened his mouth with a defiant expression, but his father continued on. "Which is a long way of saying, "_No, of course I didn't drug you_."  
  
"The girl that I saw-" His son began, and Martin once again shut him down.  
  
"**_Wasn't real_**." He says firmly, unwilling to change his stance.   
  
"I may have done some.. bad things, but I never did _that_."  
  
A silence followed. Malcolm was glaring at him with a resentful expression. It made his stomach turn. He never wanted his son to look at him like that.   
  
Malcolm would understand, once Martin was able to break him down and make him see things from his point of view. The doctor had no _choice_, he couldn't simply allow Malcolm to go crawling to the police so _soon_.  
  
For now, he would deny the accusation until he was blue in the face, if he had to.  
  
"Well, don't take my word for it." Martin continued on. "Ask the police, ask your mom. We all agreed there was _no_ girl in the box."  
  
Malcolm stood, stalking to the door. Martin could barely restrain himself from standing and going after him.  
  
"They're wrong and you're _lying_. Goodbye, Dr. Whitly."  
  
Martin reached out to him. "Wait! Your case." His son turned back to him, looking at him out of the corner of his eye.   
  
"You're, uh, after a family annihalator?"   
  
"What?" Malcolm asked him coldly, almost not willing to follow his father's train of thought.   
  
"Your suspect, this, uh, Liam character on the cover of The Daily News.." Martin grabbed a folder off of his desk, holding it up. "Isn't this your profile?"  
  
"My profile is constantly evolving." His son said snarkily, and Martin couldn't help but smile fondly.  
  
"And your method is a mix of psychology and on-the-fly improvisation. I _love_ it." The doctor looked down at the folder for a second, looking up at his son through his eyelashes.  
  
He prides himself in the deep flush that blooms on Malcolm's face.   
  
"Oh, I've always been fascinated by familicide. To.. love one's family that much." Malcolm flinches, barely noticeable to the outside eye. But his father knows all of his little signs.  
  
Signs of attraction, that is. And signs of deep rooted shame.   
  
"_Perverted_? Yes." Incredibly perverted, the two of them. Playing this little game of cat and mouse. Martin pushing his son until he broke.  
  
"_Narcissistic_? Sure." Malcolm had developed narcissistic tendencies at a young age, a by-product of his father's methods of caring for him.  
  
Yes, Martin had been delighted when his son first showed signs of being a sociopath. It wasn't quite what he had planned, but it would do.  
  
Afterall, there was only a single type of person who could understand, sympathize with psychopaths. Sociopaths themselves.  
  
His plan, even after being put on hold for a decade, was still running smoothly. Malcolm was still exhibiting emotional responses; guilt, remorse, and sadness.  
  
It would only be a few more years until Martin fully purged those needless emotions from his dear boy. Death was something beautiful, it wasn't something to feel guilt over.  
  
"But it's most certainly _love_." He tells Malcolm, his tongue poking out to lick his lips.  
  
He doesn't get quite the full reaction he was hoping from his son, only a small flush and a shifting of his feet. Averting his gaze.  
  
"Love? What are you talking about? You didn't kill us."  
  
"Well, I'm not an annihalator. Love didn't drive me to kill anyone. No, it drove me to have you." That was a blatant lie. Malcolm's conception wasn't formed out of love.   
  
It was formed out of lust, and the anger at being trapped with the woman he married. Of course, he wouldn't tell Malcolm this. Yet.  
  
The boy finding out his parents marriage was little more than an act on his father's part would only damage his psych more than it already was.  
  
His son looked disturbed. "I'm leaving." He turns to the door again, and once more falters in his steps. "And you're wrong. It's not always about who _they_ love. It's about _who_ _loves them_."  
  
Standing in front of him, Malcolm's (Now grown) little boy looked so beaten, so broken down. His eyes staring into his father's soul.  
  
Martin wanted to heal him. Wrap him in his arms and tell him how much he loved him. That he could never _not_ love him.   
  
While he thought this, Malcolm seemed to have a breakthrough. "This annihilator was consumed by his hatred for Aristos, but but Aristos didn't love them back..."  
  
"What's that now?" Martin asks, eyebrows furrowing together as his son went on.  
  
"Liam didn't care enough about his family to kill them. He wanted out. He-he even _changed his name_! Our killer wanted _in_." His face lights up, and even though he was doing police work at the moment, Martin was just as excited as him.  
  
Invigorated at the passion in Malcolm's expression.  
  
"Oh, that's good." He says, standing nodding as his boy went on, figuring out the case.  
  
"That's why he made Aristos watch the others die! He was punishing him, taking the one thing that Aristos never gave him, a family."  
  
Malcolm was practically bouncing in place, and Martin wanted to grab him by the shoulders and kiss the living daylights out of him.  
  
"Oh, my goodness, are we solving the crime _right now_?" The doctor asks, unbelievably excited at the process he got to watch just barely 5 feet away from him.  
  
"I have to go." His son says, blue eyes glimmering with the answer to the case.   
  
"Well, let me know what happens." Martin says quickly as his son leaves.  
  
"Remember, my door is always open!" He calls after Malcolm, the guards cruelly, ironically closing his door. Martin watches his son rush down the hallway, admiring his form and his coat whipping behind him.  
  
Smiling, he sits back in his chair and puts his hands behind his head. Relaxing. "Oh, Malcolm." He sighs. "**I love you, my baby boy**." Martin says to his empty room, lips curled in a devilish simper.

* * *

  
_"Don't worry, Dr. Whitly. I plan to find out."_  
  
The words echoed in Martin's mind, long after his son left.   
  
Even over his music, he still heard his voice. Growling to himself, Martin stopped writing his observations on sociopathic tendencies.   
  
Rubbing his hands over his face worriedly. Malcolm was beginning to tap into his repressed memories. This wasn't good.  
  
If he remembered, then he would trust Martin less and less, until his boy could barely stand him anymore.   
  
Martin inhales deeply. He cannot allow that to happen. Malcolm is supposed to be getting closer to him, not straying farther away.  
  
It was all about that damn girl in the box..   
  
The doctor wouldn't have had to drug his son if the boy had simply gone up to bed like he asked. No, he had to be curious and go peeking around in things that weren't supposed to be seen by him.  
  
And because of that, Martin had been forced to stop his son from turning him in. At that time, he had only 18 victims, which was a _meager_ number in his eyes.  
  
Malcolm was always bound to call the police. It had always been in his plan. Martin just had to... delay it for a bit. While he got the rest of his experiments done.  
  
Truly, he hadn't wanted to drug his sweet boy. But some things couldn't be helped in his research. Sacrifices had to be made.   
  
Sighing, he closes his journal, standing up and putting it back on the shelf. Reaching in between his journals, he plucks the photo of Malcolm from it's designated place, tracing the edge of the photo.  
  
Malcolm was sat at a bench in Central Park, a dark coat and a plaid scarf wrapped around his neck. Martin wasn't sure who took the photo, but he was eternally grateful for it.   
  
Laying down on his tiny, creaky bed he stares at the photo until the light inside his room dims, and the door locks.   
  
Lights out.   
  
Martin swallows and tries to stop thinking about how resentful Malcolm looked.  
  
"Goodnight, Malcolm." He says quietly in the darkness. Slipping the photo underneath his pillow and turning over, falling asleep quickly.


	6. 6 - Malcolm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fact he set fire to the 11th birthday card his mother got him didn't mean anything..
> 
> None of it mattered.
> 
> Malcolm Whitly was just fine.
> 
> No amount of his father goading would get to his head.
> 
> He repeats this to himself as he wakes up, mind foggy with terror and a few new memories. "Dad.." Malcolm calls out, still not fully awake. Tears wet on his face.
> 
> He grunts, his wrists hurting. Even with the sterile, soft restraints. Must have been struggling again. It was a particularly rough night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh. This chapter. This took me WAY longer than the first 5 chapters. There were so many scenes I wanted to include, especially from Malcolm's POV.
> 
> This chapter has an alternate naming (Rats and Snakes) as Jessica and Martin's respective rats make an appearance, and this is the snake episode.
> 
> I tried touching on Malcolm's sociopathy more this time around, because this episode make me feel a lot of things and I needed his character to be more fleshed out. 
> 
> We're up to 42 stories in this fandom! Keep it coming, guys! Everyone is doing so great :)
> 
> This is my longest chapter so far! I'm so proud of it, even if it was a bitch to write and even more of a bitch to format when posting. 11,392 words! Hell yeah.
> 
> Hope you guys like this chapter. I really put my all into it, I hope it shows. I wanted to include more of the script in this chapter, like I did for the previous. It makes the story have much more content, and lets me put a demented spin on the episodes 😈
> 
> We're about to head into the BDSM aspect soon (I'm planning around Episode 4..), so there's mentions of that (edging, deprivation, daddy kink, etc.) 
> 
> I know a lot of people have been waiting for this one, so I hope it was everything you hoped for it to be! I love y'all. ^_^ 💖

Malcolm Bright is not a sociopath.

Truly.

He might have PTSD, and several other mental afflictions, but he was just fine.

Just because he wet the bed until he was 15 didn't mean that he didn't have a conscious.

And the fact he set fire to the 11th birthday card his mother got him didn't mean anything..

None of it mattered.

Malcolm Whitly was just fine.

No amount of his father goading would get to his head.

He repeats this to himself as he wakes up, mind foggy with terror and a few new memories. "Dad.." Malcolm calls out, still not fully awake. Tears wet on his face.

He grunts, his wrists hurting. Even with the sterile, soft restraints. Must have been struggling again. It was a particularly rough night.

The profiler sighs loudly and turns his wrists, unbuckling the restraints.

Sunshine is chirping happily away periodically, and a the tiniest smile crosses his face. He gets out of bed and turns his stereo on, turning his morning playlist to shuffle.

_Whoa, I feel good_

_I knew that I would, now_

_I feel good_

_I knew that I would, now_

_So good, so good_

_I got you_

_Whoa!_

_I feel nice_

_Like sugar and spice, now_

Malcolm feeds his parakeet, reaching into her cage and petting her little head. She snuggles into his finger, lovingly nipping at his fingertip before getting bored with him and going to eat her seed.

He sighs, closing the cage door and heading to the counter to take his morning medication. His phone buzzes on the counter. It's his mother. He clicks decline.

Malcolm pushes the card holder button, reading the daily affirmation and laughing cruelly.

"**I am thankful for my past and it's many lessons**."

Ripping it in half and dropping it to the ground, he sniffles, still chuckling lowly. Learning lessons from his past.. yeah, right.

His phone buzzes again. Mother. Malcolm begrudgingly answers it, knowing the woman wouldn't leave him alone if he didn't answer.

"Hello, mother." Malcolm sounds even less enthusiastic than usual, the memories of the ball of orange flames in the sink still pressing behind his eyes.

He _hated_ that year. He hated his mother pretending like everything was normal when it was anything but. So he set it ablaze. His eyes glaze over his mother speaks.

"Hello, sunshine. Aldopho's outside with the car." That snaps him back into reality. He scowls. His mother was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. She never did anything for herself.

She had people for everything.

At least she remembered some of their names. A lesser evil.

"Listen, I'm a little busy, so.."

"Are you going to eat a meal today?" Malcolm could feel his right eye twitch. He didn't need this. He just wanted to be alone.

"One would assume."

"Then you can do it with me." He could practically hear her acrylic nails tapping in irritation.

"..Fine. Let me get ready."

30 minutes later, he was in a posh resturant with his mother and sister. Having a cup of tea. An english muffin sitting in his stomach. Weighing him down.

"So I said, "If you sit me next to Huma Abedin and that Madoff woman again, I swear, I will throw a splendid fit." Now I'm at a table of Sacklers. I hate the Met." God, he was so bored. His mother just went on and on.

Malcolm might have also been born with a silver spoon, but at least he didn't flaunt his wealth and have honest to god servants. She was insufferable.

It was so tiring. His intelligence was _insulted_ by his mother's trivial affairs.

He was distracted by his sister's phone buzzing. Malcolm raised an eyebrow, gripping his cup as his hands tremored.

"I hope I'm not boring you." His mother said, rouge lips pulled into a tight line. Glare so heated it could cut through steel.

Ainsley looked flustered. "Uh, sorry, uh, works blowing up." She picked up her phone and looked at it, eyes widening.

Malcolm leaned in towards her, eager to know what it was.

"Our scanners just picked up a call. Four dead bodies in Brooklyn Heights."

The profiler lit up. "Quadruple homicide?"

His sister nodded. "Crazy, right? Network might even break into coverage for it."

Malcolm nodded, happy for her. "Fingers crossed." Ainsley sat up, smiling at their mother shortly before kissing Malcolm's forehead tenderly.

"Love you. Mean it."

He tried not to gag at the gesture.

"Bye." He's left staring at his notebook as his sister leaves.

"Well, nothing like a murder to cheer you up, hm?" Malcolm chuckles nervously, not willing to answer to that.

He picks up his cup, sipping his tea and tries to ignore how violently his hands shake.

His mother stares at his hands, expression unreadable.

"You look exhausted." She states. Malcolm sets his cup down on the saucer.

"Well, not sleeping will do that." He answers plainly, the bags under his eyes weighing a hundred tons each.

"Night terrors?" Malcolm maintains eyes contact with her.

"Yes."

"Are you being safe? The mouth guard, the restraints?" His fist curls into his palm on the table. Knuckles cracking quietly.

"The nightmares always did require a seat belt."

Malcolm doesn't grace her with an answer looking down at the tablecloth and calming his breathing.

"I know what's triggering them. Seeing your father again." His head snaps up, heart jumping into his chest. Did she know? How on Earth could she know?

"What? No, I-I promised you, I haven't seen him in years." He knows he's pale, that sweat is gathering on his brow. Typical signs of lying.

But he can't stop his reaction. The pure panic that ran through him was worse than what he felt when he was unconscious.

His mother seems not to notice, but she always wore a mask. Hiding her true reactions. He never knew what she was thinking.

"I know that. I just meant that he's been featured on the news with that copycat story. The media loves a charismatic serial killer."

Oh.

"Right." He swallows, muscles in his shoulders relaxing as his mind processes this is not a fight or flight situation. Just his manipulative mother, stressing him out.

God, why hadn't Gil called him yet? How soon could he get out of here?

"What are you not telling me?" She asks, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

His elbows come up on the table, fingers rubbing his forehead to ward off the oncoming headache.

Quick, think..

All he could think about was his burning birthday card and the trunk. The box...

"Uh, these nightmares.. I've been seeing new things about that night, and uh.."

His mother sees where he's going with this, and tiredly fills it in for him.

"The girl in the box?" She sighs, and presses her hand to her eyes, exasperated. "_Again_ with the girl in the box." Mother raises her mimosa to her lips.

She takes a long pull, and half of the glass is gone when she sets it back down. "They never found her, Malcolm. She didn't exist."

"Not found doesn't mean never existed." He argues, anger rising in his chest.

"Malcolm! The guilt you wear like a millstone around your neck, it will crush you. Stop." She says firmly, glaring at him. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows drawn together in an expression of anger.

"I can't." Tears burn behind his eyes, and he relaxes his jaw, refusing to let them form.

"I have to find out what happened to her, _to- to me_, and-"

"I know what happened." His mother interrupts, and he pushes his chair back from the table. He doesn't want to hear the bullshit story again. Something deep inside of him knows it isn't true.

"You snuck into your father's hobby room, you found photos of his victims, his plans. Enough evidence to put him away for a hundred lifetimes."

She leans forward.

"But there wasn't any girl."

"What if there was? There has to be a reason I keep seeing her." Malcolm tells her desperately, the investigator inside of him wanting to know the answers.

"_No, there doesn't_!" His mother blows up, yelling. People stare at them, and his skin prickles uncomfortably at the attention.

"No, there doesn't. Nightmares aren't real, Malcolm. And neither was she. End of story." Jessica says firmly, gripping her glass with a death grip.

Malcolm stares at it, afraid of it shattering. Other ones had before, and he had to repair his mother's hand when the glass cut it open.

"As an investigator, "end of story" rarely means "case closed", Mother."

"And that's your problem. You think life is a case to be solved. Sometimes it's just a tragedy to be endured."

Malcolm couldn't drink his tea anymore. The leftover taste in his mouth was bitter, and he was sure if he picked it up and drank it would taste like cigarette ash.

His phone buzzes to life and he thanks whatever deity up there that it does.

Not saying another word, Malcolm jumps to his feet and heads out of the resturant. On his way out, he sees his mother call another waiter over and order another mimosa.

* * *

Arriving at the scene, Malcolm looks for Gil's familiar face.

"City boy!" He hears, and looking up from his feet, Malcolm grins and heads over to his mentor.

"You land a quadruple homicide and don't call me right away? I'm hurt, Gil." Malcolm puts a hand on his chest, and Gil gently pushes on his shoulder.

Malcolm's jaw clenches at the contact, but he quickly relaxes it and plasters on a smile.

"Don't be. I had to clear you consulting with the brass. Sure you're up for this? After the copycat, I thought you might take a break."

The profiler is led in front of the staircase that leads into the building, a geninue laugh building in his throat. He forces it down.

Since when did he take breaks? The idea was absurd to him.

Gil drops his arm, and Malcolm can breathe again. Properly respond with a carefree smile that was unnatural on his face.

Malcolm enjoyed spending time with Gil, but most of the time it felt like putting on a show, playing a character he didn't know.

"Me? Never. I'm great. Completely cool, 100%." He nods along with his own words, trying to convince him.

His mentor shakes his head with a quirky smile. "You should have said 90. 100, I _know_ you're lying." Gil chuckles, giving his shoulder a fatherly pat.

"I'm glad you're here. I need that brain of yours." The older man sucks in air between his teeth, clicking his tongue.

"This crime scene is seriously _messed up._"

Finally, a natural smile. An easy shrug of the shoulders.

"Well, that's my specialty."

Entering the scene, Dani and JT stand at the entrance, looking over the room. Seeing the two of them enter, JT groans loudly.

"Oh, hell no."

Malcolm beams. It was so much fun to mess with the investigator. He knew what character he was playing there.

"Oh, hell yes." He says gleefully. "Dani. Jamie." The profiler nods in each of their directions in greeting.

"It's JT." He ignores that, taking a deep breath in and interlocking his fingers behind his back. Looking over the scene, the slumped bodies and the glassy eyes.

His hands are perfectly still. No tremor.

"Guess Gil's putting the team back together."

"Is he, now?" Dani asks, a bite of sass in her tone.

Gil intervenes.

"Nothing's official. Bright's just consulting, not touching the evidence or questioning witnesses." He looks pointedly at his supposed protegee.

"Got it?"

"Got it. Great." Bright says, eyes trained on the scene.

"And, good morning." Malcolm says to the group shortly, and like a child being told they can run off and play in the park, fully enters the scene.

Standing at the end of the table and trying to see from the killer's perspective.

He can hear the "team" talking to each other behind him, and he tries not to let it distract him.

"Now, what were you thinking?" He asks himself quietly, a hand to his chin.

"Did he say team?" JT asks the group, and Malcolm fights not to roll his eyes. Of course, that was what he focused on.

"He's just consulting." Gil argued.

"I know. But the last time he did this, he chopped a man's hand off with an axe."

That had been wondrous. He nearly didn't get it done in time, but Nico had been fine and was able to give them a lead in the case.

Malcolm doesn't ponder of how wonderful it felt to see his horrified expression as he raised the axe, the arc of blood that soared into the air and stained his shirt..

Because he's fine. Just fine.

"_And saved his life_. Bright's the best profiler around. Nobody else can get inside the mind of a killer like him." He feels a bit smug at Gil defending him, because it was true. No one else could do this job like him.

He had been able to fully scan and understand the circumstances of the scene quickly, and was waiting for the team to finish their little chit chat gossip section so they could get to the good bit.

"Yeah, a chip off the old block." JT remarks dryly, and Malcolm feels his right eyelid twitch violently.

"What do we know about them?" He intervenes, not turning his head towards their direction as he speaks. So they couldn't see the silent fury in his expression.

He would have to speak to them about his father.

The three head down over to the table, Gil giving the background of the people as people took photos and made notes on the scene.

"The Boutsikaris' were a shipping family. Aristos was the father; founded the company with his wife Cora back in Greece. The children, Jeffrey and Helen, grew up here and ran the family business."

Malcolm's eyes raked over each family member, noting their positions and the food in front of them. To the close eye, this particular scene was very strange.

"Neighbors didn't hear anything unusual. No signs of forced entry. Staff made the meal, left at 8:00. When they returned this morning, they found this." Dani gestures to the scene with a wave of the hand, standing with her knuckles resting on her hips.

Malcolm gets close to Aristos' body, immediately noticing the red flag. His pulse involuntarily spikes at seeing the red, drippy mess of blood on his sewn lips.

On the outside, he is cold and analytical.

"Why was Aristos the only one with his mouth sewn shut?" Malcolm asks, bending over and inching closer. Finger outstretched.

"What was the killer trying to say? Or - **stop Aristos from saying?**" His eyes narrow, and he can almost run his fingertip over the smooth, bloody wire that forced the dead man's lips together.

"_Stop_! You're too close." Someone exclaimed, and Malcolm pulled back like he had been burned. Turning to the person who stopped him. It was Dr. Tanaka from the Morgue. The Picasso with formaldehyde.

"Oh! Uh, Special Agent Bright. Uh, it's me, Edrisa." The shorter woman said, taking off her mask. Her glasses came off with it, and she looked flustered as she put them back on.

"Oh." Malcolm says quietly, internally confused by this interaction. Why was she acting like he wouldn't know it was her? She was quite strange, but something about her made him comfortable.

Perhaps it was because she worked with dead bodies regularly, or she was the only one who treated him normally.

Malcolm wonders how it will change once she finds out who his father is.

"You're, um _too close_." Edrisa says, gesturing to the body of Aristos.

Malcolm takes several steps away, begrudgingly.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Tanaka." He wasn't, but it was something he knew he was **required** to say.

"Or is it Ms. Tanaka?" Malcolm raises an eyebrow, unsure of how to address her. He had always been too polite for his own good.

"Ms. Ms. Ms. Tanaka, definitely." The special agent nods, mentally commiting the prefix to memory.

Edrisa steps a bit closer to him, whispering. "It's so good to see you."

Cross off feeling comfortable around Ms. Tanaka, Malcolm thought. Now he just felt nauseous.

"I'm gonna wait in the car, cool?" He notes JT saying.

Good. If he left, Malcolm could finally get to work.

"I take it they were poisoned?" He asks Edrisa, moving around the table to inspect the children of the family.

"I take it you are right." Malcolm gives Edrisa a strange look, and she looks away, clearing her throat.

"So, there's no evidence of external trauma." He nods, eyes dragging back to Aristos. He was placed in such a way that he could be the centerpiece of the scene.

If his father was here, he would call it modern art.

"Uh, the cyanotic discoloration of the lips indicates that they ingested poison, uh, but I won't know specifics until I do my tox screen."

Malcolm takes this time to look at the meals placed in front of the victims.

Strange. They were all different.

"What are you seeing, Bright?" Gil asks as Malcolm walks behind the deceased moth, gazing at her meal.

"This wasn't a dinner. It was an obligation." He says simply, hands firmly behind his back.

"How do you know?" His mentor questions, wanting to get into his psych.

"Four separate meals. Four separate cuisines. They even have their own _condiments and serving dishes_." Malcolm brings one hand to the front to point at the table.

"This family didn't share anything. Someone demanded they attend. I'm betting on Aristos, the father." His finger goes to Aristos, and returns behind his back.

Quietly, Dani leans towards Gil. "He does know about bad dads."

Ignoring the jab, about his father, Malcolm continues. "And since there was no forced entry, we can assume they knew the killer and let him in."

Pointing to Aristos' face, he asks Me. Tanaka. "What's this discoloration?"

"Vitiligo." Malcolm nods.

"So the disease causes the skin to lose pigment..." It didn't explain the bruising, though.

"There's also fresh bruising on either side of the face. He's also been crying... Crying bruising." Two common aspects of a torture victim.

"The killer held his head so he couldn't look away. Aristos was forced to watch." Malcolm stands behind Aristos, looking down at his tied hands.

"That's why they were tied up. This wasn't only murder, it was torture. Targeting the father, Aristos."

"He had a front row seat at his family's execution. The killer must have poisoned Aristos after the others died." But why? Why make it so personal?

"There's also a postmortem incision in his epigastric area." Erista says, pulling up Aristos' shirt and pointing to the bloody incision.

"Why would he do that?" Malcolm asks, a hand on his chin.

"Give me a sec, I'll take a look."

Bright steps away, going over to Gil, who was standing in the scene. Speaking quietly to one of the photographers.

"So, we're dealing with a highly organized killer, enacting a methodical plan with Aristos as the target." He tells him, opening his mouth to say more. Malcolm stops when he feels his phone buzz in his pocket.

"Excuse me."

He steps away to take one of the worst phone calls of his life, his hand tremoring at his side. Malcolm periodically looks behind him, over at Gil. Trying to make sure no one was eavesdropping.

Turning back once hanging up, he gives a smile to Gil. Pocketing his phone.

"Wrong number." He lies smoothly.

Gil looks like he's going to question him, but stops once a fearful declaration from Edrisa stops everyone in their tracks.

"Sna- sna- **_snakes_**!" Snakes were indeed snakes pouring out of Adrisos' now open mouth.

"What the hell?" JT, who still hadn't gone to the car, pulled out his gun. Though that wouldn't do much.

"Where'd they come from?" Dani steps back immediately, getting away from the creatures.

"They were inside the victim. The killer inserted them through the abdomen." Malcolm says, quickly slotting the puzzle pieces together.

"Hey, seal the perimeter! And put a rush on ESU." Gil calls out to other people on the scene, and they listen. Going to call.

Malcolm steps closer to Edrisa, hands in front of him.

He grabs a cloth napkin off the table, holding it in front of him.

"Edrisa, I need you to move away from the body." The special agent says calmly, seeing her fearful expression.

"I can't. There's one on me."

His eyes trail down her body, focusing on the snake wrapping around her leg.

"It's okay. Don't move." He instructs, inching closer slowly.

"How do you know they're not poisonous?" Dani asks, and Malcolm gives a small, reassuring smile.

"Oh, they're _very_ poisonous. The black mouth, coffin-shaped head. These are **black mambas.**" The mortician looks even more panicked. Huh. He thought that identifying the snakes would calm her.

He gets closer. Gil finally notices him approaching her.

"Whoa, whoa. What are you doing?" He asks, panicked.

"It's okay. I had a few snakes as a kid." Malcolm reassures him.

"Of course you did." JT says as Malcolm goes behind him to get to Edrisa.

"How you doing, Edrisa?" Bright asks the petrified woman.

"I can't move." She responds, and Malcolm nods.

"That's good. Your brain is protecting you. There's a part of the cerebellum called the vermis. It's one of the more primitive parts of the brain. When you're afraid, it can freeze your motor functions." He explains, hoping that the information will calm her.

It does, minutely. "That's fascinating." Edrisa tells him, body still frozen.

Malcolm beams at her. Other people would have gotten irritated at him, call the information irrelevant.

"Right? I know. For a million years, our brains have been freezing us at the sight of snakes. Which makes sense. 'Cause if we don't move, we're not a threat."

The snake stares at him, and it's body coils tighter. Getting ready to attack.

"Slow breaths, Edrisa." His eyes leave for a split second to look at her, but immediately go back to the snake.

"But when we do move.." The snake snaps, leaving her leg to go after him.

Malcolm moves quickly, dropping the napkin and grabbing Erisa by the shoulders, pulling them both to safety. Away from the snakes.

"Secure those snakes! ESU is coming." Gil calls to the rest of the team as Edrisa regains control of her body and begins shaking violently.

"You're okay." Malcolm reassures her, taking his hands off of her.

Edrisa looks a bit starstruck, staring up at him.

"Thank you. Ooh."

"You can stay for one more case." JT says, and Edrisa laughs at his comment. The mortician exhales slowly, and he knows that it feels like taking her first breath again.

* * *

Later on, the team sits in the debriefing room, a whiteboard with their evidence so far behind Malcolm. He sits at the head of the table, his mind immediately making a comparison to Adrisos.

Gil re-enters the room, a tan folder in his hand. Malcolm turns his chair towards him.

"Edrisa?"

"Is fine. Don't worry. She's already back to work. Got her tox screen." His mentor tells him, handing the folder over.

Malcolm opens it, looking over the information.

"The Boutsikaris were poisoned with **metoprolol**, a beta blocker." He winces.

"Nasty stuff. Killer used it to shut down their hearts."

"Well, they certainly had enemies. The family made their money in the shipping trade. You know how many shifty people they dealt with?" Dani gives them more information, leaning foward in her chair with her own folder.

"They have been involved in hundreds of lawsuits over the years. Government fines. They were even investigated by Interpol." Malcolm goes through more papers, absentmindedly nodding.

JT speaks up, making his own deduction. "Oh, family of snakes. Maybe that's the message. A business associate after revenge."

Malcolm shakes his head firmly, disagreeing. "No, this crime scene didn't feel like business. It felt _personal_, like it was directed at Aristos."

"Don't _all_ murders seem personal to you?" The other investigator asks, and Malcolm sighs quietly. He knew this was going to come up eventually.

"JT, _shut up_." Gil tells him.

"You're a dick." Dani agrees with him, shaking her head at her partner.

Bright stands up fromm his seat, trying not to let the others see how his hands were shaking uncontrollably. "No. JT's right. We're-we're not gonna get anywhere until we move through this, so let's do it."

"Hi. My name's Malcolm Bright, but I was morn Malcolm Whitly. My father is Dr. Martin Whitly, one of the most notorious serial killers since Jack the Ripper. Killed 23 people, at least. All while raising me as the perfect dad." He gives a sardonic smile, pain evident in his eyes.

"Yes, he's a psychopath, but I'm not. I'm just me. What else can I tell you?" He asks, scanning each person's expression in the room.

"Was it, um like.._.Was it weird_? Having a serial killer for a father?" Malcom stares at JT with a blank expression. Did he seriously just ask that?

Dani's head is in her hands, completely exasperated.

"...._Yeah_. It was super weird." He answers shortly, and JT doesn't respond. He doesn't seem to have any other questions.

Sighing, Malcolm turns to the board.

"Okay. Good talk."

"Now, back to those snakes. In mythology, snakes represent fertility, guardianship and vengeance." He holds up a finger for each reason.

"I'm-a take a wild guess and say it was vengeance." Dani takes her head out of her hand to asnwer. "At Aristos."

"Yes. Right. Our killer was so angry, he destroyed an entire family. We may be dealing with a family annihilator." Malcolm speaks like he would to children, mildly irritated at how long it was taking for everyone else to catch up with him.

"What's the MO?" He grins at Gil's police slang.

"Well, there are several classifications. The self-righteous blame their mother, the anomic fear financial ruin, the paranoid kill to protect their family from a perceived threat, the disappointed want love..." He had dealt with several profiles like this previously, and had studied them extensively.

"They're usually male, struggle with depression - and often kill themselves afterward." He brings his fingers to his lips. Pressing them there so they would stop shaking.

"..But not this one. Are we sure there aren't any more family members?" Malcolm looks up, an eyebrow raised.

"I'll circle back with the DMV, Social Security office." JT leaves, going to make calls and check records.

Malcolm's phone buzzes angrily in his pocket.

"You gonna answer that?" Gil questions.

"No." Malcolm swallows, staring straight forward.

* * *

"So, Aristos had another son?" Gil asks JT as the team walks into the gate leading to a strange warehouse.

"Yes, sir. Liam Hauser." JT tells him, as he had been the one to discover the information.

"He changed his name five years ago back in Greece after he and his dad had a falling out." The special agent processed this information. Hm. It seemed likely.

"He could be our family annihilator. Or the next victim." He tells the group, stopping and staring at the building.

"_What is this place_?"

"No idea, but the building's deed's in Liam's name." Dani answers him.

"….There he is." Liam was in the parking lot, putting a large container into the back of a car.

"Liam? NYPD." Gil introduced them with his badge.

Liam ooked up from what he was doing, closing the back quickly. Malcolm quietly noticed this, and the heavy duty gloves on his hands.

"You have a minute to answer a few questions?" JT asked, crossing his arms.

"Uh, yeah. Sure, what can I do for you?" Liam was displaying outwards signs of nervousness, which made Malcolm study him much more closely than before.

"Have you spoken to your family recently?" Gil took over the questioning.

Liam chuckled, the sound forced and high pitched. Definitely nervous. "No. Not in, like, five years. We're-we're not close. Why? What's up?"

"Well, I hate to be the one to tell you this.." Gil began.

Malcolm interrupted him, just wanting to get to the point. If Liam was their suspect (90% chance at this point), he already knew.

"They were murdered."

Liam falters. "Well, uh, like-like I said, I don't, uh.. Wait, do you not know who did it?" He asked, looking at each of them.

"Not yet. We were hoping that you could help us figure that out." Gil tells him, now all of them looking at his reactions closely.

"I-I got no clue. Like I said, I haven't seen them in years. What happened?"

"They were poisoned. And snakes were left behind at the scene. That mean anything to you?" Malcolm asks, looking into his eyes and searching for hesitance.

"No." His eyes drag down Liam's body, focusing on his gloves.

"Those are some pretty serious gloves you have there. Double Kevlar? _Custom-made_?"

Liam chuckles again, perspiration gathering at his brow. "Sorry, uh, do you mind if I just take a breather? This is just, it's all so…"

He took off running into the building, and JT and Dani went after him. Gil began to go as well, but stopped and considered Bright.

"Wait here." He tells him, and Malcolm rolls his eyes as the older man ran after the other two.

"Wait, wait. Hold up." Gil told them as he entered the building. There were incredibly strange sounds inside, and his brow furrowed. "What the hell is that sound?"

JT covered his nose with his sleeve. "What's that smell?"

Growling and twittering sounds filled the warehouse

"He's a black market animal dealer." Malcolm said, standing behind the group at the entrance.

"_Damn it_, Bright, I told you to wait." Gil hissed at him, but wasn't able to say much more when Malcolm took off running, looking for Liam.

The special agent ended up separated from the others, stopping briefly to gawk at a leopard.

A inkling of sympathy trickles through him. Malcolm had always liked animals more than people.

Shaking his head, he continues on to find their suspect.

He finds Liam fairly quickly, the man looking apprehensive and panicked.

Malcolm holds his hands up.

"Liam. We just want to talk."

Liam grabs a snake out of a nearby basket, and throws it at Malcolm. He tries to jump out of the way as Liam runs, but the snake latches onto him and bites.

He grunts loudly.

Not far from Malcolm, Dani stops. "Bright?" She asks.

Malcolm points left. "That way." He tells her, and she goes to tend to the newest team member as her partner went after the suspect.

"Uh.." She says as she points to the snake hanging off of his wrist. Malcolm pulls it off, laughing nervously.

"Bright." She exclaims, dropping next to him and hovering her hands over his wrist..

Malcolm hisses. "Ah.." He grunts as fire runs through his veins, managing a small laugh. "It's fine. _Fine_. It was just a small one. Probably not e.."

Dani wants to retort, tell him that the small ones are the deadliest, but as she opens her mouth Malcolm's eyes get hazy and he collapses back.

The female detective pulls out her phone, calling dispatch. "This is Detective Powell with the 1-6. I got a 10-13, I need an ambulance." She sets her phone down after, grabbing Malcolm.

Supporting his head and trying to keep him awake as his face turns bright red.

Malcolm can hardly see Dani, her words echoing through his ears. The pain is excruciating.

"Hey, Bright? Bright. I need you to look at me, okay? You're gonna be fine. You're gonna be fine."

He's hyperventilating, Malcolm realizes. His chest is rising and falling fast, too fast.

Dani tries to calm him down, but he knows he won't be conscious for too much longer.

"Breathe. Breathe. Bright." His eyes begin rolling back, body slowly shutting down. "No, no, no, no. Bright."

He's cold. So cold. Dani's hand behind his neck is his only sense of warmth. "Help is coming."

Malcolm's eyes close.

* * *

"Dad?" Malcolm asked, his mug of cocoa still in his hand. The cellar was cold, the concrete floors smooth against his naked feet.

Malcolm whimpers, staring down at the Navy blue trunk. Something about it made him uneasy. "Dad, what's in here?" He asks, setting his mug down.

His small fingers unlocking the buckle and opening it up.

A woman, naked save for a pair of nude underwear curled in the trunk. Her eyes glassy and her expression terrified.

The child screams loudly, pure fear freezing him in place. His mug falls from his fingers, the porcelain shattering loudly against the concrete.

His scream is cut off as someone comes behind him, picking him up and shoving a cloth over his face to muffle his screams.

The cloth smells like pure chemicals, and he's still screaming as his father presses him close to his body, making him inhale the chemical.

Martin shushes him, his other hand wrapped around Malcolm's waist. Holding him up. "_It's okay, it's okay. It's all gonna be okay._"

His son screams again, his body too weak to fight back fully, though the boy tries. Martin grunts, holding him in place.

His father's body is warm against his back, his hand gripping him tightly. Malcolm's feet kick wildly, though they slow down as the cloth is pressed against him more.

"**_Oh, my sweet, sweet boy_**..."

* * *

Malcolm wakes to the sound of his own panting.

It's dark, and there's a continuous beeping.

"Hello? Where is-" He sits up, looking out of the hospital room. A nurse at the Nurse's Station notices him, looking incredibly shocked, and hurries into his room.

"Oh, my God." She says.

"Hello?" He asks, feeling disoriented and completely panicked. No control, no control, no control..

"Get Dr. Canter. He's awake." The nurse opens the door, speaking to another nurse frantically.

"W-What's in this? W-What drug did you give me?" He holds out his arm, beginning to pull at his IV.

"I need to be able to wake up!_ I need to be able to wake up."_

"It's all under control." The nurse tries to calm him down, grabbing his hands and stopping him from pulling it our.

"**_What did you give me?_**!" He screams hysterically, face contorted in an unadulterated of fear.

* * *

"Knock, knock."

Malcolm looks up from buttoning his suit sleeve, Ainsley knocking on the doorframe.

He stares blankly at his sister.

"They can't force me to stay." Malcolm says in a monotone.

"Aw, is that how you talk to your "in case of emergency" person?" She asks, sitting down next to him on his hospital bed.

"Since when did you get back into snakes?" Ainsley jokes, her kind smile not reaching her concerned eyes.

"I'm not. Tell them I'll sign the discharge AMA." He just wants to get out of here. The case is continuing without him, and he needs to get back to it.

"They don't even know how you're awake. You were given some serious sedatives."

Malcolm gives a sort-of laugh, just an exhale through his nostrils.

"What was it, **fentanyl**? I take that in my morning coffee." He tries to joke, but it obviously falls flat.

"Not something to brag about." Ainsley tells him softly, and not for the first time he feels deep resentment and love towards her. Love, for how much his sister cared for him.

But always, always resentment. How normal she was, successful she was. She had been too young to be traumatized by their father, to be changed.

"Look, _I don't take sedatives_ anymore, okay? If I can't wake up, it's like… I'm trapped in there." He tells her, irritated. Inklings of fear and panic still lingering.

"With Dad?" Ainsley asks, her dainty hands folded neatly in her lap..

"Yeah."

His phone, which had been dropped off along with him, buzzes angrily in a bag. Ainsley pulls it out, trying to turn it on and getting a glimpse before Malcolm snatches it away.

Ainsley looks down at it, eyes widening.

"Someone's getting a call. _17_ missed calls? Who the hell would.."

"It's, uh, nobody."

Ainsley questions him then, "How did your nightmares get so intense? Was it coming home? The copycat case? Too much Dad on the brain?"

"Something like that."

He mutters.

"It's okay, you can tell me." Ainsley sets a hand on his arm, but quickly moves and snatches the phone from his hand, standing and moving away from him.

"Whoa! Hey!" Malcolm yelps as he follows, trying to stop her.

His cell beep, and one of his father's messages begin to play. "_Hello, Malcolm. It's Dad._"

"Holy.." Ainsley says in shock, staring down at the phone.

"_Dad again, it's almost 4:30_."

"_Hey, kiddo, it's your father. Sun's beginning to set_.

"_Dad here. I have thoughts on the case_."

"Does Mom know about this?" His sister ask, gesturing to the phone. Malcolm snatches it back, resolving to save all of the messages later.

"**Of course not**." He hisses quietly, looking around the room like someone would hear them. His paranoia was getting worse.

"If she knew, you wouldn't be in a hospital, you'd be in a morgue." Ainsley remarks, crossing her arms over her chest.

"She can _never_ know." Malcolm stresses, just the thought of her knowing making him want to vomit.

"Have you _lost your mind_?"

"These.. These nightmares, they're new, Ains. It's like my subconscious is trying to show me something." He tries to explain.

"Like what?" She's geninunely looking worried now.

"Lost memories. I think there's some missing time between when I found the girl in the box and when I called the cops." Of course, his sister knew about the girl in the box. It's all he talked about in his pre-teens.

"How _much_ time?"

"I don't know. Dad's the only one who can help me understand it and remember it."

"You think our serial killer father is gonna help you? After _everything_ he's done?" The pain in Ainsley's eyes isn't fair. She doesn't have to have pain, she didn't go through what he did.

"Don't do this. Don't go back to him. Don't let him in your mind." Malcolm swallows. Unable to look his sister in the eyes.

"What else can I do? He was there, he knows the truth."

_"I have to go."_

* * *

After the visit with his father, Malcolm was running to the address Gil had sent him, confused with Liam's apparent suicide.

He was panting as he ran up to Gil, coat sticking to him.

"Gil, Liam wasn't our killer." He tells the detective, other officers around them.

"Give us a second, Bright." Gil held up a hand, but Malcolm went on.

"The Boutsikaris' were killed by someone who loved the family and who wanted their love in return. Liam didn't care about either."

Gil hesitates in his conversation, sighing.

"Excuse me. Sorry." He turns and grabs Malcolm by the shoulder, taking him to the side.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm working the case." Malcolm tells him, jerking his shoulder away from his touch.

"Our case just went splat." Gil gestures to the grisly suicide scene.

"The brass wants to close it and move on."

Malcolm shakes his head furiously.

"Well, they're wrong. The killer is still out there. An illegitimate child, I'm sure of it. He could've pushed Liam off the building." Gil gives him a pitying look, and Malcolm wants to tear his hair out and scream.

"All right, take a breath, kid."

"I don't need to take a breath! And I don't need sleep, and I don't care if I seem crazy." He truly didn't, bit he did need the success of a case solved. Malcolm couldn't solve his own case, so he needed to solve other's.

"I'm right."

"Bright. You want to be a part of this team or not?"

"Of course I do. You _know_ that, but I also want to find this killer. Let me run this down." He couldn't just stop, couldn't go back to the emptiness and bitter reminders of the past in his apartment.

Malcolm hears footsteps behind them, and Dani stands there. She gives him a small smile, but he can't return it.

He considers asking where JT is, but decides not to.

"There were payments. I went through Aristos' finances. Over the last month, he sent a set of payments to an anonymous recipient."

She pauses for a moment, considering the special agent. "You know, I thought that it was Liam, but maybe..

"He tried to pay off the annihilator." Malcolm says.

Gil sighs loudly, dragging his hand over his face.

"I can buy you a few hours."

Malcolm bounces in excitement.

"Go to Aristos' lawyer. I want to know who he was writing checks to."

* * *

He and Dani decided to question their now prime suspect, taking the female detective's car as Malcolm didn't own one himself.

Walking through a (conveniently open) side gate, a family was sat in the backyard, enjoying a rarely sunny day in New York.

The mother played croquet with her two daughters

The father was grilling burgers, not seeming to notice the two officers before they were standing in front of him.

"Mr. Littman? NYPD." Malcolm doesn't bother with a proper greeting, wanting to get to the point as quickly as possible.

Dani shows her badge, as of now Bright didn't have his own.

"Sorry to barge in like this, but we had a few questions come up." Powell says, pocketing her badge and resting her knuckles on her hips.

"Regarding Liam? I heard. When we spoke, I had no idea he was suicidal." Littman barely looks up from the grill as he speaks, which immediately rubs Malcolm the wrong way.

"Oh, we're not sure he was." Malcolm, shuffling his feet and glancing at the ground for a moment, raises his eyes to the father's, his eyes cold and his gaze steely.

"We think Liam was killed by the same person that murdered his family. Possibly an illegitimate child."

"Bank records show that you made payments for Aristos to an anonymous recipient. Do you know who he was paying?" Dani asks him, going into interrogation mode.

Malcolm's senses tingle as one of the children comes up to her father, glancing wearily at two of them. Her attention quickly goes back to the man at the grill.

"Dad, we're hungry." She tells him.

Littman looks away from the officers for a second, reassuring his daughter. "I'm-I'm coming, sweetie."

Turning back to the grill as she goes back to the table, he gives an answer.

"Uh, Those payments were small loans, not some kind of hush money. Aristos was a family man."

"How long did you work for him?" Malcolm questions, his suspicions gaining more evidence every second.

"15 years." Littman tells them, guilt evident in his tone.

"He was like a mentor?" He asks, trying not to think of Gil.

"Absolutely." Their suspect nods, running a hand over his face to wipe the swear away. "All this is because of him." He gestures around the backyard.

"Dad!" The other daughter calls out, and Littman piles the burgers on the plate.

"Oh, my-my kids really are starving. Give me one second?"

He goes off without saying anything else, placing the plate down and helping his daughters assemble their food.

The girls giggle as he makes a joke, and begin eating.

Littman turns to his wife. "Do you want some, too?"

She nods. "I'm hungry."

Malcolm can't take his gaze off of them, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows.

"Bright, what is it?" Dani asks, noticing his reaction.

"He fits the profile.... He's the right age to be Aristos's son, he's exhibiting multiple stress reactions, and he's still protective of the victim." Bright says quietly to his newest partner, wishing he had his blue stress ball to squeeze as he waited for the man to come back.

"But it makes no sense. You'd have to hate Aristos - to torture him like that." Dani tells him, confusion evident on her face.

Malcolm shakes his head

"Not for the annihilator. You have to _love them like family."_

Littman returns. "I'm sorry. They're going berserk. Can-can we talk tomorrow?"

Malcolm smirks just a tiny bit, finally feeling in control. With that little stutter, they had him just where they wanted him.

"We just have a few more questions, Mr.  
Littman." Dani assures the nervous man, and looks at Bright for a split second.

"You said Aristos was a family man, but, come on, his family hated him." He says casually, shoulders rolling back as he spoke.

"Hey, don't-_don't say that_. The man's dead." Still defending the victim. A common trait among annihilators.

"Daddy, can I go swing now?" The same daughter that came up to the grill came back, asking permission from her father.

"Did you get enough to eat?" She nods furiously, and Malcolm focuses on her for a moment, eyebrows raising.

"Okay." Littman tells her, and she runs off to the swing set.

"She has vitiligo." Bright remarks, and he sees Dani's eyes widen in the edge of his vision.

"Yeah. She's self-conscious, but the doctor says it's harmless. You know, it runs in the family." The suspect seems much less nervous now, which makes Malcolm incredibly weary.

"Aristos had it, too." Littman remarks casually, setting his spatula down.

"Which makes sense, since you're his son. Did Aristos know? Is that why he hired you?"

He shakes his head. "No. I sought him out. Worked for him for years. He had no idea. Finally, I got up the nerve to tell him. I thought he'd….welcome me with open arms. Wrote me a check for 50 grand and told me to _get out of his life_."

A feasible motive, at least, in the mind of a killer.

The swing creaks loudly behind the two officers.

Dani steps forward. "Why don't you come down to the station with us? Your family doesn't have to find out like this." One thing Bright had learned about Detective Powell is that she could be very kind at times.

He wishes she wasn't. It would be her downfall one day. Kindness was crushed quickly in this world.

"They're never gonna find out." Littman says, his tone dark and foreboding.

Malcolm doesn't understand what he means, until his body tenses as his mind quickly analyzes the situation, and comprehends what has happened.

The swing creaks louder. Louder.

"Bright?" Dani asks, and her voice is a million miles away.

The daughter on the swings was slumped on the ground, unconscious.

"The food. You poisoned them when we showed up. You knew we were onto you." As soon as Malcolm says that, Littman collapses. He must have poisoned himself as well.

In a flurry of activity, Bright goes over to the picnic table to check the mother and her daughter. Dani goes over to the other children, checking her pulse and breathing.

She pulls out her phone.

"Gil! Littman poisoned himself and his family." Dani ignores Gil's frantic questions. "Just get here!"

"Bright, how long we got?"

His eyes move rapidly, trying to remember the different amounts of time it takes different poisons to kill someone.

Malcolm begins to pace near the picnic table, hands in his hair.

"They're already unconscious. Ten minutes before they are dead, five for the girls."

Dani speaks into her phone, her other hand monitoring the girl by the swings pulse.

"We need an ambulance at 3131 Sycamore Lane."

Malcolm hadn't even thought of calling an ambulance, too overwhelmed with the situation for his mind to work properly.

"What do we do? Bright!" She yells, and Malcolm finally gets a bearing on his thoughts after a few panic inducing moments of chaos.

"Littman poisoned the Boutsikaris family with a high dose of metoprolol. It stopped their hearts. I'm thinking he used the same thing on them." If he didn't, then he must have had more than one supplier, or one with a wide variety of poisons.

"What do they need?" Malcolm is still pacing, thoughts running too fast for any of them to really form into coherent words.

"Uh, uh a jump start,_ a real kick_! Uh, **atropine**!"

"I have a medkit in the car." Dani tells him, gesturing towards the side gate.

"Go, go, go, go!" Malcolm is running, his feet making a loud impact on the concrete as he reaches the car. Opening the trunk and grabbing the bright red med-kit. Leaving it open and running back, his breath harsh and his vision wobbly.

He drops to his knees in the yard with kit, opening it and (thankfully) locating the atropine. There were six tubes, two more than he needed.

The tension in his chest lessens as he sees them, though he still feels like hyperventilating. Malcolm grabs three of the syringes, handing a fourth to Dani.

"Jab them in the leg. Soft tissue." He tells her, running over to the picnic table, to the prone mother and her daughter.

"How long before it works?" He hears Dani ask as he injects the mother, and then the girl. He's much more gentle with the child, supporting her and making her sit straight up.

"I don't know. It depends on the dose." His voice doesn't sound like his own, his ears feeling plugged. It reminds him of when his father would take him to the public pool, and they would swim together for hours. Malcolm always got water in his ears. Every single time.

Bright hears a deep inhale behind him, and he could possibly weep with relief as the girl on the swings wakes up. "There you go! There you go. Okay? Oh.." Dani reassures her, just as relieved as he was.

The mother also gasps awake, and Malcolm takes on hand off of the daughter to hold her up and reassure her

"Hey, hey. _It's okay._ You're all right." She looks panicked, glancing at her daughter, who is also stirring awake.

"You're all right." He repeats, though it's mostly to himself as the woman holds onto her child, confused but concerned for her children.

"Honey, are you okay?"

Malcolm stumbles over to the perpetrator, holding onto the last syringe. The tension in his body is gone, now that the children are safe.

He trusts himself, and he is willing to let go.

Bright looks down at Littman, who was somehow still conscious.

"Don't-don't don't do it. I don't want to live."

Malcolm gives a magnificent, purely evil smile.

"I know." He jabs it into Littman's thigh as hard as he can, plunging the syringe quickly.

Killers like him didn't deserve to die, they were supposed to rot in their cells. Like his father.

Littman shudders, groaning as the antidote pours into his body.

Sirens begin to come closer, and Malcolm stands up, throwing the empty syringe to the floor.

Feeling nothing anymore.

* * *

Malcolm watches as Gil pours scotch into his glass. Sitting on the couch in his office, his chest feeling like a big, empty hole. He raises it to his lips, sipping the burning liquid.

"You saved that family today. As a part of this team, you should be proud of yourself."

The profiler swallows, nodding. "Yeah. Definitely."

"Oh, oh kid, what do I need to know? How bad is it?" Malcolm rolls his eyes, taking a long gulp of his scotch.

"You don't have to worry about me. I can do the job."

He sighs loudly. "Actually it's the place I feel most normal. I-I need it."

"..Yeah. That's not a good thing. Nobody should need this." Gil runs a hand over his face, looking incredibly tired.

"Why'd you come back, Bright? You could have gone anywhere, stayed away from New York and your father's legacy. Why come home?"

Malcolm didn't quite know the answer himself, but he goes with a simple one for Gil's sake. Instead of the long, convoluted explanation.

"You can only run away from your past for so long. And, you know… home is where the heart is."

Gil hesitates. "Well, then.. here's to family." He raises his glass, and Malcolm presses his own against Gil's. Trying not to wince

"You'll, uh call me in on another case?" Malcolm asks, and Gil nods. He feels a small sense of relief.

"Absolutely. One hundred percent."

Bright chuckles and begin to get up. "Good night, Gil."

He groans as he becomes dizzy, stumbling a bit. Gil stands up.

"Hey, what's that? One drink - and you're falling down?" Gil lightly ribs him, holding up his hands. Ready to support Malcolm.

"I'm fine. It-It's fine. They, uh, must have given me Ativan at the hospital. That or a antihistamine. Something's reacting with the alcohol. But I'm fine." Malcolm heads over to the doorway, but nearly falls as he gets there. Holding onto it.

"No, no, no, no. No. Bright, you are not getting yourself home like this." Gil holds onto his shoulders, sighing at the younger man.

"Powell!" Dani looks up from her desk, at the two of them.

"Little help here, please."

* * *

Dani helps Malcolm out of the taxi, taking his keys from him and opening the door to the loft.

"You know, you didn't have to escort me." He says for what feels like the one thousandth time.

"I told you, I was just gonna come home and sleep."

"Were you, though?" Dani asks as she leads him up the stairs.

"Yeah." Bright tells her as they reach the top of the staircase.

Sunshine chirps insistently at the sight of her owner.

He mumbles a quiet "Hello, Sunshine." Heading to his open bedroom. Sitting down on his bed.

"You sure do have a lot of blades." Dani remarks, looking around his place.

Malcolm grunts as he pulls his shoes and suit jacket off. Throwing them on the floor.

"Uh, blunt force weapons, as well. The morning star, uh, is from the 13th century."

Dani isn't quite sure how to respond to this, but is optimistic.

"I guess it's good to have hobbies..." She says to herself quietly, though Malcolm still hears her.

"Is this a parakeet?" The detective asks, pointing to Sunshine's cage.

"Yeah. Don't make it weird."

He lays back on his bed, securing his right restraint. Malcolm is left handed, like his grandfather on his father's side.

"How do you sleep like this?" Dani asks, entering his bedroom.

"Eh." He says, tone non-committal. "Who says I sleep? These are for the night terrors."

"What do you do when you have company?" She asks, watching him make sure his restraint is tight. Trying to get the other one.

"Well, I've never slept with anyone." Malcolm freezes, blinking.

"…I mean, I'm not a.." He laughs awkwardly. "I mean, I've had sex. Plenty of sex."

Now Dani looks awkward as well

"I get it. I got it."

She clears her throat and chuckles, watching him struggle. "Uh, are you having some trouble?"

"My hand-to-eye coordination is a little bit lacking right now." He tells her, closing his eyes.

"I can see that. Can I help you?"

"That'd be great."

"Okay."

"Thank you."

As she buckles his restraint, she whispers. "You're welcome."

Malcolm groans a bit as he gets into a semi-comfortable position, fully restrained to his bed. "Uh, so..is this the craziest thing you've ever seen?"

Dani shakes her head, a sly smile on her lips. "Not even close."

"Can you, uh.. there's a mouth guard. On the nightstand." Malcolm jerks his head to the right, and Dani goes over. Shifting his eyes away from her, he opens his mouth and she puts the guard in for him.

His ears burn with humiliation. And not the good kind.

Malcolm exhales, and mumbles something incoherent. He sees Dani leave out of the corner of his eye.

"Good night, Bright." She says, the front door opening. He closes his eyes for just a moment..

* * *

The door opened back up, or at least it seemed to.

His mother's voice, slightly distorted and echoing. "Martin, is everything..?"

Malcolm's eyes are barely open, lids heavy and his mouth dry. He can slightly see the ceiling. The ceiling of his childhood bedroom.

He turns his head to the right slightly. His father is sitting by his bedside. Young. Happy. His gaze is soft as he rests his big, warm hand over Malcolm's.

"Look who came and visited me in the cellar." His father nods towards his son.

"Oh, Malcolm." His mother says, moving closer in his room. Malcolm inhales, his mouth too dry and tongue heavy to say anything.

"You know you're not allowed in Dad's hobby room." Her hand smooths his hair down, and he wants to shy away from the touch. Her perfume was overwhelming, hurting his already throbbing head.

"Don't be too hard on the little guy. I think he was sleepwalking." Martin's voice is a whisper, a stark difference from his mother's.

"Is he all right? Did he hurt himself?"

"Now, don't fret, Jessie. He's fine." His father says, his thumb running over Malcolm's knuckles. The feeling is unlike any other, pure warmth running up his arm.

His mouth and throat are burning, like he's swallowed boiling water or pure fire itself.

"I doubt he'd even remember this - in the morning." Malcolm has a bit more control over his eyelids, able to see a bit more. There is a crystal colored border around his vision, and he knows something isn't right.

He still can't move, though. It feels nice, in a way. He doesn't have to think very much. Just lie there, his father holding his hand so tenderly.

If he didn't know something was wrong, he would be ecstatic. But all he really feels is scared. And warm.

"Sweet dreams, my love..." His mother whispers to him, leaning down and kissing his forehead. "Mm!"

She pulls back, looking at his father.

Malcolm stares at the two of them through his crystal vision.

"_Mm, my loves_."

It all seemed to happen in slow motion, his mother's hand coming up to the left side of his father's face, making him see everything.

Their lips meet, and Malcolm wants to scream, cry, tell her to get away. To get away from his father, stop doing that.

Panic rises in his chest as the kiss goes on. His mother's red lips pressed again his father's pink ones. Her tongue peeking out to lick into his father's mouth.

His hands twitch violently, trembling under his father's. He squeezes it tighter, and Malcolm is hysterical on the inside.

No matter how hard he tries to scream, to cry, he can't. He _can't move, can't talk._

"Mm." His mother hums into the kiss.

"Hmm." His father hums back, and Malcolm is trying to move his legs, to throw a tantrum. But he can't move anything beneath his hands.

His mother laughs, pulling away. As much as Malcolm is angry at her for blatantly kissing his father in front of him, he wants her to get him out of this.

With all of the strength in him, he raises his right arm and reaches towards her retreating figure. His voice weak and feeble. "_Mom_.."

Seeing this, his father grabs his wrist and holds it up, making it wave.

"Good night, Mommy..." Malcolm says in a high pitched voice, and his mother laughs, giving a smile before closing the door. Leaving him alone with his father.

Martin lets go of his hand.

After using his voice once, he feels he can say more, even though his throat hurts badly. "I saw a girl. I saw her..."

His father sets a cloth on his lap, getting a small bottle with a dropper out of his pocket.

"No, Malcolm."

"No, the girl was only a dream..."

"Dad.." Malcolm croaks, trying to raise his head. "_Scared_.."

"Shh, my boy. There's no reason to be scared. I will protect you.." His father leans down, kissing his forehead. It feels so nice.

"Now, Malcolm..."

The cloth goes back over his face, and the boy wants to scream, struggle. But his vision is blurry and his head is spinning.

** _"It was all just a dream..."_ **

* * *

The next morning, Malcolm stands in his father's cell. A guard next to him. His father is wearing wireless headphones, and he's stuck staring at his back.

The way his muscles rippled in his back as he wrote.. he wasn't wearing his sweater this time. Just the clean, white of his psychiatric uniform. His father was definitely quite older, but he wasn't any less attractive.

His curls are so defined, Malcolm thinks as he turns around.

"Malcolm! How long have you been here?" Doctor Whitly asks, the guard leaving and closing the door behind him.

He stares at his father, the memory of his warm hand over his making the skin on his knuckles tingle.

"Tell me about the girl in the box." He says simply, hands at his sides.

His father groans loudly, and Malcolm ignores how body reacts to the sound. "Oh, this again."

Doctor Whitly clears his throat. "There wasn't any girl. There couldn't be."

"There was. I remember her." Malcolm is firm, wanting to grab his father's shoulders and shake him.

"Your dreams..." His legs cross in his chair, and he looks amused.

"They're _not_ dreams. They're memories. After I found her, you drugged me. And that gave you just enough time to…"

"To what, kill her? Hmm? **Chop her up**? And what did you do? During this missing time." Malcolm flinches, guilt weighing him down. He glowers at his father, lips curling into a sneer.

"I don't know."

"Ah." His father chuckles softly, shaking his head. "Be careful, Malcolm."

"If you didn't call the cops after you found the girl, then how long did it take you to make that call? Days? Weeks? Months? How many other people died? And why can't you remember?" His thick eyebrows raise as he stares up at his son.

"_Perhaps it's better if you don't._"

Malcolm's heart is bleeding onto the floor. Tears burn his eyes. He won't let his father see him crying. He hadn't cried when his father was taken away. Only after, when he couldn't see.

The lock buzzes, the latch on the door clicking.

"Don't worry, Dr. Whitly. I plan to find out."

Just before the door clicks and locks, Malcolm hears a smug. "Good for you."

* * *

He spends the day feeling sick and lethargic. Vomiting several times, the sight of his mother violating his father's mouth.

The smell of chloroform lingering around his apartment, phantoms pains in his throat and mouth.

He manages to eat half a container of yogurt before vomiting. It didn't hurt as bad after, as he wasn't throwing up pure acid.

In between episodes, he manages to eat light things. Banana's. Yogurt. Chicken broth with crackers.

Malcolm has adapted to his PTSD over the years, knowing how to deal with his symptoms.

It's difficult. His phone buzzes all day, texts from Gil and Dani and Ainsley.

He can't bring himself to tell them what's happening. All he sends is a text reassuring everyone that he's fine, just resting for the day. No one needs to come over. He's fine.

He's not, though.

Near the end of the night, after he's thrown up once more in disgust, Malcolm lays on the cold linoleum floor.

His chest hurting like no other. Doctor Whitly could be so cruel when he wanted to be. The small boy inside Malcolm is whimpering in pain. He lets himself slip into that headspace in his vunerable state, shivering on the floor.

He wants his father to love him. Something inside of Malcolm wanted him to obey his every wish, listen to what he said. Wanted praise from him. Hugs and warm cups of hot chocolate. Soft kisses and bubble baths.

He and his father were similar in so many ways. Malcolm wondered if that made his father proud, to see how affected he was by his influence and his presence.

Malcolm doesn't allow himself to indulge in that train of thought for long. When he gets up from the floor, he is half hard against his thigh. He heads to his bed.

Wrapping the blankets around him in a crude impression of a hug.

Grabbing his phone, Malcolm stares at his lock screen for the longest time, before unlocking it and staring at his browser.

'_BDSM clubs in New York'_

Something easy about the scene was that it was surprising tender in the aftercare, if you found the right person.

His best memory (after his first time) was being in full restraints. Completely deprived of his senses. One would think that Malcolm would panic, but it calmed him like anything else.

His dom had brought him to the edge over and over, never letting him fall over. When it was over, Malcolm was kissed in a way that made him feel incredibly cherished.

The only time he had ever felt like was when his father held him after a nightmare as a child.

He had thought that he wasn't as fucked up as he thought, that he could be happy with someone other than his own father.

His wish was crushed when that same Dom broke up with him six months later, calling him "_unstable_" and "**unsafe**". Malcolm decided to forego relationships all together after that, and hadn't done more than one night stands and purely sexual relationships since.

Malcolm wonders if he can find someone that will deal with his PTSD and let him call them Daddy.

Face flushed red, he turns his phone off.

He could do more research later. For now, all he wanted to think about public pools of bowls of watermelon on hot summer days. No murder. No drugging. No conflicting feelings.

* * *

2 hours after Malcolm leaves Martin, phone time begins. The doctor had planned for this, looking at the clock. "Hello, David." He says as the guard enters with the phone and sets it down.

The guard is just sitting down in the folding chair when the door unlocks and another guard sticks his head in, panicked.

"David, #3457 is going _crazy_. You need to get in there and calm down, you know they only trust you." David jumps to his feet, and the two guards leave together.

Martin smirks. Distraction successful.

He punches in the number, settling back in his chair.

"This is Andan."

Martin grins. "Andan, this is Doctor Martin Whitly."

"H..hello, Dr. Whitly. Do you need something?" Oh, how he loved hearing fear in people's voice.

"As a matter of fact, I do. I need you to forego all your other jobs for this one."

"I.. of course, sir. What do you need me to do?" Andan asks, and there's the shuffling of paper.

"I need you to keep tabs on my son. 24/7. I expect a daily report at 4:30 each day, with extensive details on what he's doing, who he's talking to, how his eating and sleeping habits are."

There's silence on the other end.

"Andan?" He asks, tone dark

"..Yes, of course, Doctor. Consider it already done. Daily reports. _24/7_. Got it."

Martin smiles. Everything was so much easier now that he was a known, notorious serial killer.

"Good. Don't let him see you. He's very aware of his surroundings."

By the time David comes back, Dr. Whitly is sitting on his bed, reading his copy of Peter Pan.

* * *

After calming #3457, David headed to the nearest phone, figuring his report was slightly overdue. It had been 3 hours since Malcolm had left.

He picked up the receiver, typing in the appropriate number.

"You asked me to call." The guard says.

"He came back?" Jessica Whitly asks, and David hums.

"Yeah, he just left."

"Thank you, David. That's good to know." The woman hangs up and he sighs, replacing the phone on it's jack.

Heading back to the Doctor's cell to watch the door.

In upstate New York, Jessica violently throws her cell phone, the device smashing into pieces.


	7. 7 - Malcolm (And Martin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For once in his pathetic little life, Malcolm Bright is grateful for his mother's incessant safety precautions. 
> 
> It saved his life, for once.
> 
> Though it wasn't really the fall that would kill him. It would be the landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took so long!! I'm so sorry. I've been so busy, 98% of this was written very late at night. Still, I tried quite hard on this one. Most of it is from Malcolm's POV, but near the end I added some Martin and Andan stuff!
> 
> I wanted to do a separate chapter for Martin, but I barely even had time for this chapter, let alone another before the new episode :(
> 
> Tried to go more off script for this chapter, though I still want to follow the episodes and portray certain conversations and scenes here.
> 
> !!! WARNING: NSFW DESCRIPTIONS OF INCEST/MASTURBATION !!!!
> 
> There is still a lot of scenes I wanted to include but didn't have time for, so those are probably going to show up in future chapters.
> 
> This chapter is going to be heavily edited over the next day or so, before the premiere of the 4th episode. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading!
> 
> 10/15 UPDATE: People have been asking me about my Tumblr, so I made an account for this story and my other writing. Hit me up, message me about this story or your ideas about the show. :) 
> 
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/throwaway-sinfulwriter

Bright was stuck in between, as he cleverly called it.

His mind was trapped in his nightmare, while his body was fully awake and thrashing. He could feel every jerk, every bit of struggle as he "slept." It was like sleep paralysis, with much more flailing and traumatic imagery.

He knew this wasn't real, he was in his bed at 31 years old, but the fear was incredibly real. Malcolm was terrified out of his mind. He was stuck as a child.

The man trapped in his nightmare can hear his own grunts through the mouth guard, can feel himself pulling as hard as he can, twisting in his restraints.

He's paralyzed in that too warm bed once more, flowers and chemicals burning his throat.

"_Be careful, Malcolm_." His father says, brown hair curling at the edges. No, that didn't make sense. He didn't say that.. Dr. Whitly had said that.

They were two separate people, his terrified mind tried to tell him. His loving, tender father, and a psycho murderer who taunted, hurt him.

There was no way they could be the same. It just didn't make any sense.

A constant buzzing plays in the background of this time of immense pain, his wrists chafing and his mind rebelling against all logical thought.

The cloth goes back over his face. Smelling sweet and chemically pungent. "_How many other people died? And why can't you remember_?"

"**_No_**!" Malcolm grunts around his mouth guard, nearly sitting all the way up as he tugs on his restraints.

"You changed the locks?!" He hears an indignant shout in the background, though he can't place where it's from.

Malcolm screams into his guard, his body kicking into full panic mode, and he's sent running, his restraints snapping.

He _flies_ out of the window, waking up as soon as the cold New York air hits him.

The only thing keeping him from falling and breaking his legs is the leather tether that attached to him to the wall.

For once, he is grateful for his mother's incessant safety precautions. It saved his life, for once. Though it wasn't the fall that would kill him. It would be the landing.

Speaking of his mother..

She was standing on the sidewalk below him, having dodged the shards of glass from his window. Huh, he thinks for a moment. I guess that was where the shouting was coming from.

"Are you alright?!" She yells up to him, a brief panicked expression on her face. He had never seen that on her, though something was buzzing in his mind... where had he seen that before?

He nods dumbly, not able to form words yet. Malcolm was still hanging out of the window, and he grabs the edge as carefully as he can without cutting himself.

His mother's expression changes into one of annoyance, anger. "Well then; it's about time, buzz me in, will you?"

Malcolm stares at her for a moment, in disbelief. Though he had come to expect this kind of reaction, it still disappointed him. He wanted reassurance.

Like his father used to give him, Malcolm thinks as he hops back into his loft. Not just a one and done concern before berating him. Geninune praise, compassion.

It had been so long since someone cared for him like that.

He knew he wouldn't get that from Jessica Whitly.

He sighs as he buzzes his mother in, hand running over his face.

Not a good start to his day. He was slowly breaking, and he didn't know how much longer he had until he cracked and everything spilled out.

* * *

The talk with his mother had (unsurprisingly) done little to reassure his psych, and his appointment with his therapist was also lacking.

She was his initial therapist, after that night. He had seen many others during his life, but she was the only one he felt vaguely comfortable with.

That said, he was very reluctant to open up to her, and the look she gave him when he mentioned chloroform did little to help him feel better.

In their short session, Bright calls his father by his first name. This had only happened a handful of times, mostly when he was a rebellious teenager. Wanting to defy his mother, seeing her flinch as he spoke about Martin.

His therapist wasn't much better, raising her eyebrows when the name leaves his lips. She wasn't very good at hiding her reactions.

But, she did have lollipops. Malcolm loved lollipops.

When his father would take him in to the doctor's, he would always get a lollipop. His mother didn't want him eating much sugar, but Daddy always let him eat his in the backseat of the car on the drive home. Telling him how much of a _brave, good boy_ he was for getting all his shots and being polite to the doctor.

Malcolm stops in his tracks in the middle of the sidewalk. Several people shout at him, having to go around him to continue walking. He doesn't fully hear them, sweat dripping down his back. He can't think like that anymore. **It's wrong**.

The root beer Dum-Dum in his mouth is bitter in his mouth. He spits it out, and crushes the candy on the pavement with his boot. It was worse than he thought.

He wants to bend over, grip and pull at his hair. _My mental health is eroding_, he had said. That was definitely true.

Sometimes Malcolm still felt he was that scared 10 year old inside. It was never healthy to start thinking like that again.

_My name is Malcolm Bright_, he thinks to himself as he frantically continues walking, following the directions to the crime scene Gil sent him.

_I am 31 years old. I am a profiler and consultant for the NYPD. I was assigned to Quantico for 8 months before I was kicked out._

_Kicked out_, he winces. It wasn't the best way to put it, but it was true.

Malcolm needed to move on. He knew this, but he couldn't bring himself to actually do it. He didn't know if would ever be able to. That would mean abandoning his father again, and it was already hard enough the first time..

Perhaps it was for the best. He wasn't any closer to getting answers from his father than the man himself showing up at his doorstep in the middle of the night with the biggest bouquet of flowers and the steamiest love confession.

Some things were just not meant to be.

* * *

A handful of lollipops in his pocket , Malcolm arrives at the crime scene.

"One for you, one for you, and one for you.. lemon lime." He says as he hands out the lollipops, only getting a smile from Gil and Dani as he did. JT just looked mildly confused, staring suspiciously at the wrapped candy before putting it in his pocket.

Looking over the body, Malcolm hums. "The eyes.. This is a side effect of **lobotomy**. Are there any incisions?"

Edrisa comes over to him, nodding. "Yes, at the top of the skull. Hello, special agent Bright."

Malcolm gives her a small smile. "Hello, Edrisa. Cherry?" He holds out a lollipop.

She looks mystified, gently taking it from him. "My favorite.. I'm sorry, I-I didn't know we were exchanging small gifts. I don't have anything for you, but I can go get..?"

"No need. It's okay." His smile is more tight, more forced. The doctor was kind, but her interest in him was so obvious it made him wince.

Still, he smiles fondly. Edrisa was one of the only people who seemed to understand him, even more so than Gil. She didn't look at him strangely, and seemed to share his passion of crime and investigating.

_A good ally._

No one could match his father, though. Those were big shoes to fill.

Malcolm had no recorded attraction to women, romantic or otherwise. It was probably a psychological effect to his Mother's influence, or his admiration of his father, even after he had been arrested.

Though, it could just be him. He would never get a solid answer to that one, as there wasn't a single Malcolm Whitly in the multiverse that wasn't affected by his upbringing.

(_And yes, he believed in the multiverse theory._)

Regardless of this fact, in this universe he had only ever been with men, and was determined to have it stay that way.

He's shaken out of his static thoughts when the examiners tell them they've found something.

Staring at the note left by the killer, Malcolm calmly explains how the person who wrote it must have been mentally ill, the "word salad" (_clever phrase he learned in college_) making no coherent sense.

Leaving Gil with the note, he heads back over to Edrisa, who is examining the man's skull.

"These incisions are incredibly deep.. it's almost like he wanted to cut through the skull itself." Edrisa says, gently pulling back the scalp, and..

Dani and JT gag behind him.

Malcolm lights up at the sight of the pink, gorey cavity of the man's head, heart beating furiously at the sight. The entire head was empty, just a husk of a place that once held a brain.

It was.. **_wonderful_**.

He crouches down next to Edrisa, observing inside.

"He removed the entire brain.." The profiler whispers lowly. "How?"

"I don't know, but it's kinda...impressive." Edrisa says, and they glance at each other, smiling.

* * *

Throwing his blue stress ball in between his hands in the debriefing room, Malcolm looks over the crime scene photos, the note, and the death report once more.

He died of a heart attack.. How strange. For a moment, Malcolm thought that Edrisa had been wrong. But now, looking at the evidence.. the nail marks on his palms..

It was entirely plausible.

"Why would he remove the brain?" Dani asks, and JT shrugs next to her.

"Beats me."

Malcolm rolls his sleeves back, standing. "Removing the brain fufills some sort of psychological need for him. It has to have some meaning.. I just don't know what it is yet."

"What do we know about him?" He asks, looking at Dani.

"Well known professor. Widower. Neighbor last saw him leave at 9 PM. He never came back. His lab is still being run, by, uh.." Dani pulls out a paper from her case file, reading it over.

"Carl Mitchell and Elaine Brown."

Malcolm gasps loudly, and everyone's eyes snap over to him.

"_Elaine Brown_?! Sh-she's a legend." His eyes sparkle. True excitement rising in him.. What he wouldn't do to meet the Elaine Brown.

Dani raises her eyebrows.

"…Okay."

"I researched her work at Quantico.."

He would be elated to meet her. That being said, he was hoping he wouldn't have to meet her under case circumstances, but he would take what he was given.

Malcolm's hand rests on his chin, and he stares at the photos for a moment longer before someone comes into the debriefing room.

"Mr. Bright? Your doctor is on the phone." One of the officers in the front says, and he stands as she leaves. Looking at the others, trying not to hunch his shoulders up. It must be his therapist. Or.. him.

"It's uh.. my.. dentist. Bad gums, y'know." He makes a flimsy excuse, quickly leaving the room. Being led to the phone that he had been called from.

Malcolm sits down, picking up the phone and putting it to his ear.

Picking up on the breathing before saying anything, he knows who it is.

"I'm tiring of these phone privileges." He says bluntly, glancing around, paranoid.

"Awh, Malcolm. Don't be _daft_. We both know you love it when I call. You didn't answer my calls yesterday." His father starts off sounding cocky, but he sounds geninunely sad that Malcolm hadn't answered him.

The man could practically see his father's frown now.

"I was.. busy." He lies. Yeah, busy. Busy throwing up and masturbating in sporatic intervals.

"Did you get my voicemail?" His father asks in a hopeful tone.

"**No**." He answers, rubbing his forehead in exasperation. Malcolm didn't have time for this. "Why are you calling me?"

"I saw you and your sister on the television. _Aw._ Local news is always amateur-ish, but Ainsley has some real chops, don't you think?"

He doesn't like below Martin mentions Ainsley. He feels irrationally jealous.

Malcolm goes to respond, but stops when his father's voice becomes muffled. He's talking to someone else.

"_Can you turn that down? I'm talking to my son_."

Said son presses his forehead to the table, ignoring how fast his heart was beating. He didn't want to see his father again. But just hearing his voice made him want to jump into his arms and be safe with him.

He shouldn't feel so strangely aroused and happy when the man he was in love with called him his son.

"So? Did he take the brain, Malcolm?"

The profiler groans quietly, shaking his head even though his father couldn't see him.

"I'm not telling you _anything_. That's police business."

"Oh, _come on_, my boy. Someone taking the brain of Dr. Elaine Brown's colleague.. you don't think that means something? You know, I'm quite good at deducing killer's meanings.. you know, **from reference**."

Malcolm sits up fully, ignoring that last bit, eyebrows drawing together. "You think he's sending a message?"

He can hear his father's smirk over the phone. "Are you asking me for my advice?"

"No." _Yes. Please help me, father. I'm lost. I need you._

Doctor Whitly sighed on the other end. "Fine, then. If you don't want my advice, please tell your sister that her diction is _impeccable_."

Bright doesn't know how to respond to that. "Goodbye, Dr. Whitly." _I love you._

"Wait, Malcolm." Malcolm hadn't moved the phone from his ear, even thought he should have.

"Fear, my boy, has always been your.. stumbling block. This case may be **difficult** for you."

Irritation grows in Malcolm. How dare his father tell him what was difficult for him, he didn't know how he reacted to situations like this..

But, deep down, the man knew that his father was right.

"I catch killers for a living. Fear isn't a _problem_ for me." He says in a biting tone, grip tightening on the phone until it creaks dangerously.

"But your nightmares.. those tremors." Said tremors were acting up, making the phone shake as he gripped it. "Push yourself too hard.. and you'll break into pieces. And we don't want that, do we, now?"

"You have always been good at pretending fear isn't there, Malcolm. But we both know it is. You're not the best at hiding it, I'm afraid."

Malcolm digs the nails of his free hand into the table. "Because of you."

His father sighs loudly on the other end, like it was a game and Malcolm had given the wrong answer.

"Here comes the blame game _again_, Malcolm." He sounds exasperated. Part of Malcolm is satisfied with that, while the other part of him was devastated at his father being cross with him.

"Let's not go there today, hm? Keep it civil."

He doesn't have anything to say to that.

"Uh, listen, why don't you swing by? You looked so _troubled_ at our last visit.. So many questions left unanswered."

"I have no intention of returning." He didn't, but Malcolm knew he would end up going there again. It wouldn't be today, tomorrow, or hell, the next week. But it would be some day. He couldn't stay away for long.

"Very well." Doctor Whitly says in a brisk tone. "Have it your way, Malcolm. But.. when you do see Doctor Brown, please tell her that her work helped me.. **resist convention**."

Malcolm hangs up. He doesn't have time for his father's games right now. There's a crime to be solved.

Even when he leaves the phone, his chest hurts. He wants to call back and beg for forgiveness. But he won't.

* * *

Meeting Elaine Brown slightly lifts his mood, but the conversation with his father is still weighing heavy on the back of his mind. Getting her signature is a bittersweet moment, as he forgot to bring a pen and made himself a fool in front of her.

Still, he's proud of himself for asking her to do such a thing during a case.

He observes the two of the doctor's as they speak about Alice Downey. Dr. Brown is _lying_. He can tell. There's something they're not telling them, something they're hiding.

Malcolm is disappointed. He had looked up to Elaine Brown, and it was eye opening to see her lie to their faces.

Pressures of doctoral pursuit, his ass. There was something wrong with this situation.

He just wasn't sure what it was.

* * *

By the time they get back to the debriefing room, Malcolm is exhausted. His entire body is tense, and if he doesn't stretch out his legs soon he'll go into a fit of charlie horses and muscle spasms.

Legs stretching underneath the table, Dani takes over for the moment. Pinning the picture of Alice Downey on the board.

She's a kind looking young woman. He wonders what drove her to suicide. Affair with Professor Holton? Drugs? _Depression_?

He wasn't sure. There was no true way to tell, as the man closest to her was found with no brain.

His eyes shut, and his hand goes to his pocket, fingertips pressing into the softness of his childhood stress ball.

"What do you think, Bright?" Dani asks, and said man sighs. Taking his hand out of his pocket and putting his signed book on the table.

"I think that Dr. Brown is lying. Never meet your heroes." He gives a sardonic smile.

JT takes over. "I went over to the admin building. They're all as crazy about Elaine Brown as you are."

Malcolm rolls his eyes. Hard. It nearly hurts. He thinks he can see his brain.

"But they did find this crazy anonymously submitted letter with theories about Alice Downey's suicide." He puts it on the table. "Look familiar?"

Malcolm's eyes widened, and he grabbed the paper, reading it over. The same scrawl, same off kilter lining of the words.. It was _their guy_.

"The killer was accusing the psych department of off-the-book experiments."

Dani's eyebrows raise. "How off the book?"

Bright continues reading, trying to make sense of the writing. It was much more coherent than the one left of the crime scene.

"Giving students LSD. Apparently, Alice was _tripping on acid_ when she went over that building. Pretty serious accusations."

Malcolm sets the paper down again, examining the words and their placing closely.

"This is older than the other paper." He says after a long silence. "It's slightly inflammatory, but much more coherent. It shows our killer's slow descent into a full psychotic break."

Malcom runs his fingers through his hair,(_damp from sweat, slightly greasy from not showering the night before_) inhaling through his nose. "There's some meaning in these words.. Something he has to be telling us. What is he saying? What does he want us to _find_?"

Bright's eyes are darting all around the evidence board, analyzing each piece and trying to put it together. Like a jigsaw puzzle.

**An incredibly difficult puzzle.**

While facing this dilemma, Dani gets a call and heads out of the room. He can't pay attention to her right now, he needs to crack the letters opens, find out the meaning, _find the answers_..

He's broken out of his thoughts when she comes back in, firmly telling them that Carl Mitchell had been drugged and they needed to head back to the research building.

Malcolm follows the other two with no hesitation, quickly yelling into Gil's office that they're Ieaving.

The man looks panicked for a second, but by the time he gets up to follow them, they're gone.

* * *

For a long, gruelling moment, Malcolm thinks they are _too late_. Thankfully, going up the roof stairs and entering the space, he hears the muffled telltale, fearful babbling of someone taking too much LSD.

"He's still here!" Malcolm says, and JT goes off, searching for the killer. Dani stays for a moment, mouth open in shock.

They made it just in time. Carl Mitchell is laying on the ground, hands and mouth tied. Saws, knifes, and blades lay next to him. There is a line drawn on his head, a guide line.

_Like a doctor would draw for plastic surgery_, Malcolm thinks as he takes the tape off and cuts him free.

"You're safe now, Carl." Malcolm says, helping the man to his feet.

"Do you see? Do you see it? Do you see how high? I have to fight.. I have to fight it. Oh, please! _Please_!" Carl rambles, and Bright grabs him by the shoulders.

"Listen to me, Carl. You're high on LSD. In large doses, it can mimic a psychotic break." He tells the dosed man, trying to calm him down.

"Police!" Malcolm hears a far off shout.

"I need to fight, need to..!" Carl grabs him, turning him around and backing up.

"Carl, Carl, calm down. You don't need to fight, just breathe. Everything is alright." Malcolm tries his best to calm the man down, but it's not doing much. He feels cold metal against his neck and shit, he grabbed one of the blades. When had he done that?

Malcolm is scared. He's either going to get his throat slit or fall with Carl over the side of the building to their death. He knows not to struggle, but his heart is hammering so hard in his ears he can't help but want to squirm.

He looks up as Dani approaches, gun raised. "Don't shoot!" He tells her. "He's been dosed. He doesn't know what he's doing."

Dani slowly lowers her pistol. "What can you do?"

Malcolm's muscles tighten as Carl begins walking back again. "Not a whole hell of a lot." Except get away from the drugged man, which would either end with his throat cut open or the professor hurtled over the building.

Neither were good options.

"Oh, it's what they want!" The man holding the blade to his throat says, and if he can just get him to let go of it he can get out..

"We're so high up! Oh, we're so high up!" Closer and closer to the edge they go, and Malcolm can see the fear in Dani's eyes. His body is locking up, ready for impact.

They're going to fall.

Mere inches from falling, Malcolm relaxes and heads into action. He grabs the two protruding bones of Mitchell's wrist, squeezes, and feels him drop the knife. Gasping, Malcolm shoves his elbow into him and the man falls backwards, off of the building.

"Oh!" Dani yells, running forward as Malcolm barely catches himself from falling with him. He's disoriented for a moment.

"Bright." Detective Powell says, and he risks a peek over the ledge, preparing for a bloody splatter on the sidewalk 10 stories down.

In reality, 2 stories down, there was a miraculous balcony which Carl Mitchell had fell on. Malcolm feels his body relax with sheer relief. Thank God. He hadn't killed someone.

"Did you know that was there?" He hears his companion ask.

"..Sure." He says unconvincingly, wiping the sweat from his face. Sure.

* * *

As they return to the NYPD building, Dani asks him a question that derails him.

"So, what should I put in the report?" She asks as they walk into the detective floor. All three of them had been miraculously silent on the ride back over, and on the elevator trip up.

Malcolm looks at her strangely. "Well, I don't know. When I did reports, I usually wrote what happened at the scene."

JT decides to join the conversation then. "Whacko consultant pushes vic off roof?" He suggests, and not for the first time Malcolm feels anger towards him.

JT hadn't even apprehended the suspect, and he was the one criticizing Malcolm's judgement? Malcolm knew what he was doing. He did his job well, damn well. Even if he had to put himself in danger for it.

Carl Mitchell wouldn't be alive if it wasn't for Dani receiving that call, if Malcolm hadn't brought him out of his trip by tipping him off that ledge.

Gil approaches the rest of his team and tells them that Carl is stable, and the worst he had was a fractured rib.

The moment has already passed, but when Gil asks him if he's okay, Malcolm snaps.

"Whack job consultant's detailed understanding of the human psyche led him to anticipate, until diazepam could be administered, physical pain might be the only thing to bring the victim out of his psychedelic experience."

The team look at him in stunned silence for a moment, before Edrisa comes up to them, saying that Bright was right. Once again.

"50 times the standard dose.." Malcolm mutters to himself as the mortician goes on. "More than enough to induce fear and panic, leading to cardiac arrest."

"That could be his M.O." Gil suggests. Bright's eyes light up.

"To induce the fear that kills them." Finally, an answer.

"We're going to look for someone who was part of the experiments with Dr. Brown." They needed a list, and the only way they could get it was from Elaine herself.

"The taking of the brain is..it's like a metaphor. For the destruction of his own mind." It was easier to think about the case then his own situation. To fill the space with his own deductions instead of hearing his father's disappointed words on repeat.

"He wants to rid the world of those who wronged him. We need to keep tabs on Elaine Brown."

\----

Sitting in Dr. Brown's living room, Malcolm and JT question her until she finally begins to divulge.

"Was Alice Downey taking LSD on your order?" Bright asks the woman, a small tape recorder in his hand. The throw pillows on the chairs and couch reminded him of his father's eyes. He tries not to look at them too often, focusing on Elaine instead.

"This isn't 1963, Detective. I can't make anyone do anything." For a moment, he and JT share a look.

"Except, you can. With your credentials and authority, you could make anyone do anything. How long did these experiments last? How many students participated in them?" The pillows were mocking him. They were simple, a blue to green gradient with shimmery thread and sparse beads.

He questions her, mouth running on auto-pilot as his mind slowly drifts off to another place. He sees recognition in her eyes as he lists off what they know about their suspect.

Bright faintly hears the name Dominic Render as his eyes glaze over.

Malcolm fully spaces out.

He couldn't get his father off of his mind. Shutting his eyes, Malcolm remembers every glance Martin had ever gave him. How his eyes darkened when annoyed, lit up when he was joyful. How straight and perfectly white his teeth were when he smiled.

"-right?"

Malcolm just wants to sit here, and think about things he usually never allows himself. Just for a moment. A sinful, forbidden moment. Think of his father's hands, how they were still bigger than his, even when he was fully grown.

How his father would put on records and play classical music to dance to, how he read sonnets to him as a child. Doctor Whitly taught him to play the piano at a young age.

He was remembering the small details, the ones that hurt to think about when his father wasn't there.

Martin loved the rain. He would always make Malcolm hot chocolate and read to him when it rained. Kept him warm, even when a storm was raging outside.

"Bright? Bright? Malcolm blinked his eyes open, and instinctively clicked stop on his tape recorder.

"Uh.. sorry. I'm just.. uh.. I'll just.. I'll go wait in the car." He stood and walked outside, sighing as the cold air hit his face.

He was thoroughly embarrassed about losing himself like that. Making a fool of himself in front of JT, who already hated his guts.

Malcolm enters the car, resting his head on the back of the seat and taking a few deep breaths. He just needed to get back into control. Become closed off from his emotions.

He knew how to do it, his heart was just hurting so bad he didn't know if he could. Malcolm needed to escape from his mind. Focus on something else.

JT. How long had the man been calling out for him while he was trapped in his childhood memories? Seconds? Minutes?

He didn't know. Bright sighs, his tired eyes refusing to rest as he fiddled with the car door. In fact, he knew nothing about JT. Only that his humor was incredibly strange, and he did not like Malcolm.

The driver's door open, and said man hopped in the car. "Elaine is settled down for the night with some chamomile."

Malcolm nodded, pushing down the discomfort at the mention of tea. His mother always tried making it for him, but he refused to drink it. It was how his father drugged his victims.

Tea laced with ketamine.

Needless to say, Bright was more of a coffee fan.

"Hey, what happened in there? You completely zoned out." JT asks, hands on the steering wheel.

He shrugs. "Yeah, that happens sometimes. My body can shut down at times."

"Gil and Dani are off looking for Render. He wants me to stay on Professor Bad Trip."

Malcolm stares at him.

"That means you can go home."

He doesn't respond to that. "What does JT stand for? Joseph? Jake? Jason? Julian? J-"

JT interrupts him.

"I don't think you're stakeout material."

Bright shakes his head. "I'm a chronic insomniac. I was made for this."

JT looks past him, observing Elaine's house. Only the porch and living room lights were on.

"How many kid's brains do you think she scrambled to get that house?" Malcolm glares at him, crossing his arms.

"…Sorry." He says reluctantly. "I know she's your people "

The profiler next to him hums, non-committal. "No. You're my people."

JT gives him a certain look, and Malcolm raises his eyebrows. "Tell me why I'm wrong."

"In the service, we have a hierarchy." So, JT had been in the service. Malcolm had guessed this the first time they had met, but now his assumption was confirmed. He smirked lightly.

"Your rank earns you respect. It's the same for cops, y'know. I have a badge. But you don't respect me."

Irritation grows in Bright. How could the man be so daft?

"Listen.. when I was a kid, a cop came to my house and took the bad guy away. He saved me. Saved me from hell on earth, from a lifetime of fear. There is not a single person that respects the badge more than I do, okay?"

Malcolm is uncomfortable with opening up to JT, but he knew that he had clear this up now, to prevent anything from happening later.

"Any respect I haven't given you is what you've been giving to me. You've been an absolute dick since I started consulting, and it's really not helping any of us. Including yourself."

"I'm doing my best. I might not have the most orthodox methods, and I know I come off as strange to you, but I do my best to get justice for everyone. Just like Gil tried to give my family justice." Tried being the keyword.

He doesn't want to get too emotional, so he runs his hand under his nose and sniffs.

"I need to ask Dr. Brown a question. For the profile." He exits the car.

* * *

Sitting in Doctor Elaine Brown's living room, Malcolm Whitly opens up about his case. It was quite sad to call his life a case, but that was what it had been since he was 10 years old.

Legal documents, testimonies, and news articles. It wasn't much of a life for a child. And it didn't lessen as he got older. People had always expected he would turn out like his father.

"Your case is a testament of the humans mind to endure trauma."

Malcolm winces. Ouch. Not exactly the support he had been looking for.

"Uh.. thanks? I guess? Was that a compliment?" Elaine just raises her eyebrows and drinks more of her tea.

Bright shudders in his seat, the scent of chamomile in the air.

He continues on, telling her about his "controversial" repressed memories, and everything he had been diagnosed with.

She asks him if he believed he had been drugged, and Malcolm nods, fingers tapping in a rhythm on the arm chair to stop the tremors.

"Have you ever smelled chloroform?"

"..Well, it's not my drug of choice." She gives him that look, a look that his therapist gave to him often. He knows he's deflecting, okay, but he's not very comfortable talking about this with anyone.

Unlike his therapist, Dr. Brown continues on.

"It has extreme chemical notes, but it's actually quite sweet smelling."

He swallows hard. Thinking of his father's clean, crisp cologne with a hint of chemical and sweetness.

"A familiar smell can trigger repressed memories."

Malcolm stands from his chair, going over to a desk in the far side of the room. Fingers resting on his hip bones.

"Do you have any fears?"

He asks, shuffling through the papers on the desk. Looking at different files, with graphs and charts. Dr. Brown doesn't say anything about him going through her things.

"I have regrets." She says, and Malcolm turns to look at her curiously.

Elaine continues. "If your memories are blocked, it must be because your mind is afraid of something in your memories. You'll need to overcome that fear to access them."

Malcolm notes this, vowing to remember that fact once the case was over.

He turns, eyes raking over the room. Meticulously looking at every detail, trying to find something that would aid him.

His eyes catch on a glass display of tribal masks, and his head tilts. Something clicking in his mind.

"These are.. interesting." Bright says, going up to the case and staring at the one displayed in the middle. There were four in total, but he couldn't tear his eyes off the one.

"What is this one?" He asks, finger poised just inches from the glass case.

"It's African." Malcolm exhales through his nostrils, trying not to snap at the woman. He knew that. He wasn't an idiot.

"It's an artistic interpretation of Lucifer." A cold shiver travels from the base of Malcolm's skull to his tailbone.

"Has Dominic Render ever been here?"

"Yes, he along with many other students.. he.. he was always fascinated by those masks.."

Malcolm sprints back to the desk, gripping the folder with the copy of the notes left by Render.

One thing he hasn't understood earlier was the circular shapes Dominic had formed with his words. At the time, separately, it hadn't made much sense.

But now..

Bright moves the papers around, his own panting breath loud in his ears. Stepping back, he looks at all of the papers. They form a face. His head snaps to the left, at the Lucifer mask, and back.

"He wants you to understand him. To find him." Dread washes over Malcolm as he quickly takes a picture of the papers and shoves his phone back in his pocket.

"This is where he's planning on killing you. It has sentimental value to him."

"S-something's wrong." Dr. Brown tells him, and his heart drops to his stomach as he turns to her. She's sweating, pupils dialated. "My pulse is racing, my thoughts are shifting. It-It's the tea. The chamomile."

Malcolm rushes over to her, biting the inside of his cheek so hard the bitter taste of blood fills his mouth. He should have known to not trust the tea. Dammit.

At least it wasn't ketamin. If it was, he wouldn't be able to function. Wouldn't be able to help the woman.

He ignores the pain at the thought for now, hesitantly placing his hands on Elaine's arms to get her out of the chair. His stomach flips unpleasantly at the touch.

"You've been laced with LSD. We need to get you out of here." Bright leads her to the door, and goes to open it when all the lights cut out.

Left in the dark, the only sound Elaine's drugged babbling and his own panicked breathing, Malcolm knows what he has to do.

"Come on, let's go back." He pulls her away from the door, and she holds onto him, pupils unnaturally dilated. "Shh, shh. Come on. Sit back down.."

"Stay here. Don't go anywhere." Bright tells her, making sure she doesn't get up, and leaves the room.

Outside, in the hallway, is a record player. A record is already sitting in it.

Malcolm takes out his phone, ringing JT. He waits in tense silence until the man finally answers.

"JT. Dominic Render is in the house. Get in here." He hangs up, not waiting to hear the man's response. Malcolm would have to go find the mentally ill man, prevent him from getting to Dr. Brown.

Thankfully, due to his father's love of classical music and all things retro, they had a record player in their home. He and his father used to dance to Frank Sinatra.

Thank you, Martin. Malcolm thinks as he turns the player on, pressing the needle onto the record.

He flinches as rock music started playing. It was definitely no Sinatra, and it hurt his ears quite a lot, but hopefully it would delay Render.

The loud music should confuse the man, and if Malcolm was lucky he might hallucinate due to sensory overload. A part of Bright feels guilty for undoubtedly causing a mentally ill man more pain.

But, thinking back to the Professor's empty head and the many blades next to Carl Mitchell, Malcolm can't take any chance.

Malcolm stops by the fireplace, grabbing a fire poker and holding it ahead of him like a weapon.

Walking through the house slowly, hands in front of him, Malcolm tries to talk Render down.

"Dominic Render!" He calls out over the booming music, trying to hide the fear that was bubbling at the surface. Malcolm couldn't let the man to have the advantage.

"No one else needs to die." He comes around the corner, muscles tensing in anticipation of the killer being there. He isn't.

Where could he be?

Malcolm goes over the entire house, not finding the suspect. That only leaves one place.. upstairs.

"I know how you feel. I've had my fair share of nightmares."

He begins slowly ascending the stairs, his breathing erratic and undoubtedly afraid. His palm runs over the wooden railing of the staircase. It does little to calm him, but Malcolm memorizes the grain of the wood underneath his hand.

"But they trapped you inside yours, didn't they?" Bright prided himself in his skill of talking people down, getting a Masters in Psychology hadn't just been for show. He reverently studied conversation, and the act of talking to a person who was dangerous.

It helped him in the sociopathic aspect (he was not a sociopath, he just had tendencies). He understood empathy more, though he could not accurately emulate it without looking quite robotic.

It also helped in his career as a profiler. He had many personal conversations with killers, which was especially easy due to his background. Malcolm was quite good at subduing killers, talking them down from suicide after they had been caught. Showing at their trials, convincing them serving time was better than death.

He wanted to use this skill to help Dominic Render, but so far the man had yet to show. This worried him. Bright not be able to talk him out of it.

"..Dominic, I know you're scared." Malcolm reaches the top of the staircase, walking towards a closed doors on the left. "I am, too."

The door opened, and the next thing Bright knew, he was being hurtled backwards, into a picture on the wall. He feels the glass shatter as he hits it, all breath leaving his body. Hitting the wall so hard, his knees wobble.

He fights back with the fire poker, holding it in front of him so Dominic couldn't stab him. Malcolm pushes against him, giving him enough space to get away from the wall.

Dominic's hand hits the wall, and Bright is behind him. He grabs Malcolm by the shoulders, trying to get him down the stairs so he could subdue him properly. This doesn't work well, as Render's elbow comes back and hits him in the face. The hit causes his shaking knees to give in, and he collapses to the floor.

Render stands over him, pressing him with his foot to the edge of the staircase.

"This is how I respond to fear."

He crouches over Malcolm, raising his blade.

Malcolm's eyes go wide, pure, unbridled fear in his eyes. This is it. He's going to die. Dominic is going to kill him, take his brain and.. and what? Do what with it? He didn't know, there was no time, he couldn't even open his mouth for his last words-

There's an incredibly loud bang, and Render is off of him, a warm splatter of blood on his face. Unlike the time at Quantico, when the feelings that followed were resentment for a person that could be saved, all Malcolm felt was satisfaction.

If that was how Dominic reacted to someone who was trying to help him, he couldn't imagine how he would react to someone prosecuting him.

He doesn't wipe the blood off of his face, sitting up calmly and looking back. Dr. Elaine Brown is standing on the staircase, shotgun still in hand.

"I-I did it. I killed him." Something twists in Malcolm's chest, and he slowly desends down the stairs. There's a large crash somewhere in the house and then a cry of, "Police!"

JT enters the archway near the staircase and raises his gun. "No!" Malcolm tells him. "No. Wait."

"Elaine, you're in the middle of an intense psychedelic episode. I know it may seem like a lot right now, but in the end it's just going to be a bad trip." He manages to take the gun from her, taking out the bullets and turning the safety on, throwing it to the side.

"You can't run from the fear. You just have to.. fall into it, okay? You did this." He gestures up the stairs at Render's body. Cold and lifeless. "You have to live with it, now."

Malcolm's eyes drag from Elaine to JT behind her. "Jehovah? Jerome? What is it? You've got to tell me, man."

His smile doesn't fit his face. It feels like a crude, paper machè mask. Tearing at the edges.

* * *

Returning to his loft incredibly late at night, Malcolm sets his keys down and re-fills Sunshine's water. He wasn't planning on changing the locks anytime soon.

Blood and thin shards of bone (Render's ribs had cracked at the impact of the bullet) splattered all over his clothes, he decides to take a shower.

Closing the bathroom door behind him, he looks into the mirror as he slowly strips his clothes.

A strange feeling had been following him that day. He couldn't quite put his finger to it, but if he had to put it in words.. he would say he feels like he's being watched.

He sighs, suit jacket and dress shirt on the floor. His paranoia was getting worse. Pants pooled around his ankles, Malcom steps out of them and leaves the bathroom for a moment.

His bare feet padding against the cold, wooden floor as he heads to the kitchen to get his medication.

Technically, Malcolm was supposed to take night time pills, to make him sleep and level his mood. He didn't take these, as he would be trapped in his nightmare, and he always felt groggy and unable to wake up the next morning.

He didn't like not being in control.

The profiler takes an anti-psychotic, hoping that he wouldn't have any more flashbacks while showering.

It's slightly freeing to walk around his apartment in just his briefs. He preferred the cut over boxers, though when he looked down, he flushed. His pubic hair stuck out the sides, a stark contrast the grey fabric and his pale skin.

Thinking of this, he stops when his body involuntarily tenses. His head snaps to the side, looking into the archway of his bedroom at the broken window. Cardboard and tape covered the hole in the glass, keeping the cold out. For now.

Running his fingers through his hair and pulling at the strands, he just needs to get in the shower and wash away today's filth.

Finally going back to the bathroom, he takes off his briefs and stares at himself. There had been a time, when he was having sex regularly, that he waxed all of his body hair.

It had been a long time since he was with someone, and so Malcolm had allowed it to grow. It made him feel.. protected, in a way. He still couldn't grow any chest hair, but at least he had a good amount underneath his arms and covering his groin.

Contrasting the lithe and smoothness of the rest of his body, Malcolm was quite proud of his.. bush. That term was usually reserved for women, but he prided himself in being fairly androgynous at times, his physique helped him in this aspect.

It was quite uneven, as it had been growing for two years without much thought. Malcolm opens the cupboard and grabs a pair of clippers, face bright red.

He always felt selfish when he took care of himself. Embarrassed.

Bright plugs it into the wall, the buzzing beginning. He takes a deep breath, wetting his groin with water and beginning.

Not having much experience, the shaping is quite crude, but he trims the length. Until all the hairs were the same length. Short, but just enough to give him dimension.

He looks up into the mirror, bringing the line down a bit. Just above his cock.

Turning the clippers off, he turns to the side. A puff of hair above and framing his penis. He found it quite attractive.

The color and shape reminded him of his father's beard.

Eyes squeezing shut in denial of the thought, he leaves the clippers on the counter as he enters the shower. He needed to be clean.

The spray is freezing cold when he first turns it on. He gasps at the temperature, everything in him screaming at him to get away from the water.

Malcolm stands his ground, turning the knob to hot and sighing as it progressively warmed.

Turning and wetting his hair, his eyes shut and he lets the warm water trail over his body.

He thinks back to the first (and only) time he had seen his father naked.

As a child, he had followed his father everywhere. To the store, to fundraisers, to work if he could convince the man.. Until he was 6 year old he had even followed him to the bathroom.

Malcolm was always told to turn his back at this time, and he did. Always chatting with Martin about anything under the son, school, space, what it was like being a surgeon..

This had to stop once he got older, and Malcolm did it without his father having to ask him. He wonders if Martin would have let him, if he had kept following him to the bathroom.

When he was 9 years old, roughly a year before his father's arrest, Malcolm won his class science fair. The boy had been so proud. His father had helped him research for the project, but Malcolm did all of the writing and decorating himself.

Coming home from school that day, he couldn't find his father anywhere. He wasn't in the living room, his parents room, or his office. However, upstairs, the sound of a shower cut off and the familiar creaking of a glass door opening caused him to head to the bathroom.

Opening the door, the room was humid and damp from the steam. The boy opened his mouth to tell his father of his 1st place ribbon, and was at a loss for words.

His father, freshly out of the shower, naked. A towel grasped in his right hand, but covering nothing. Martin gasps. "Malcolm!"

His eyes land on Doctor Whitly's chest, and travel down his parents body. Following the thick trail of hair down his stomach. Malcolm's mouth opens in shock at the sight.

Before his father can scold him, the small boy turns and runs out of the bathroom.

Later on, after his father had explained boundaries and what was appropriate, Malcolm had given him a big hug. Nuzzling his face into Martin's neck, the boy felt his warmth and smiled. Thinking of he looked like underneath his clothes.

When his mother had returned home, Malcolm had urgently tapped on her waist until she paid attention to him. She bent down, long hair tucked behind her ear. Cupping his hands over her ear, the boy had whispered to her, "Daddy has a tail!" He told her.

His mother looked surpised, and then burst into laughter. It was one of the only times he had seen her geninunely happy.

After that day, he and his father had shared special glances, ones that made Malcolm squirm and his heart feel fluttery.

In the present, Malcolm looks down at himself. His previously flaccid cock was now half hard, water running over the length. He sighs, grabbing his shampoo and beginning to wash his hair.

The rest of the shower is fairly uneventful, and Bright steps out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam and frustration. A small towel around his waist, he goes to his bedroom and sits on the edge of his bed.

Taking a deep breath and touching himself through the thin fabric. Whimpering and leaning back on his bed, back arching towards his hand.

His chest rises and falls steadily, towel slowly being pulling away by his nimble fingers. Malcolm spreads out, closing his eyes and running his fingertips over his thighs.

Slowly teasing himself as his mind wandered. His mental catalog of fantasies playing behind his eyelids. Holding onto the base of his cock, his other fingers trailing up to tease at his nipples. Keening, the man calms himself as thinks of Martin's lips wrapped around the sensitive nubs on his chest.

"Oh.. yes.. please, please touch.." A needy noise leaves his lips. Malcolm is so worked up from the day, he knows he won't last for very long.

"Fuck!" He groans as his hand twists around the wet tip of his erection. "Oh, yes, dad. O-oh my God." Bright doesn't even have any lube in his hand, he's so hard his pre-cum is beyond enough for friction.

Malcolm's fingertips run over the sensitive head, pulling back and staring at them. His skin shiny with moisture. Pressing his fingers into his cleft, he rubs his taint in small circles, wailing in pleasure at the outside stimulation of his prostate.

He can't even come up with a proper fantasy, just needing to get the knot of frustration in his gut released. It had tightened significantly after the throw pillow incident, and Malcolm knew he would wake up releasing if he didn't do it beforehand.

Tonight, his skin is on fire. His naked body writhes on his bed, toes curling and cock twitching rapidly in his hand. Malcolm's jaw is loose, filthy words echoing in his apartment.

"Fuck me, please fuck me.." Pressing at the furl of his anus, his voice rises in volume as his muscles squeeze around his finger. His other hand gripping at his balls, whining like a wounded animal at the stimulation.

He knew just the smallest amount of friction could send him over the edge. The rise and fall of his chest already indicated how close he was to climaxing.

His finger crooks just a bit, an electric shock of pleasure shooting up his spine. His mouth opens, and he begins ejaculating.

"Yess! Yes! Daddy! Fuck me.. yes, ughnnn, fuck! Please! I need it!" His hips buck and his voice begins to grow hoarse as he rides the nearly painful waves of orgasm.

It begins to die down, and Malcolm's raised legs drops to be flushed to the bed. The ribbons of semen shooting from his cock slowed down to a steady dribble, a torturous stream of fire and pleasure as his fingertips stroked his prostate.

He stretches like a cat bathing in warm sun, neck arched up to the ceiling. "Oh, father. Mm." Malcolm pulls his finger out, sighing in pleasure as the aftershocks rolled through him.

Shame sets in very quickly, and his hands come up to cover his face. Eyes squeezed shut. If he kept his eyes shut, he couldn't see the evidence of his sin.

One hand comes off of his face to grasp the towel, wiping his stomach and groin clean of any evidence. Sitting up, his head throbs in an oncoming headache as he forces himself not to cry.

Dressing in a big pair of sweats and a loose t-shirt, Malcom reaches underneath his bed until his fingers meet smooth glass. The pressure behind his eyes increases as he stares at the bottle of chloroform, standing and leaving a trail of droplets over his pillow.

Screwing the dropper back on, the bottle goes back underneath his bed. Bright climbs into bed, on top of the covers. Buckling himself into his new restraints and getting comfortable.

His head turns into the pillow, and he inhales. Burning chemicals and sickly sweet flowers. He feels woozy. Groaning, he swears that he can smell his father's crisp cologne somewhere in the chloroform.

His eyes close, though he doesn't fall asleep. Malcolm floats in the abyss for a moment, steadily breathing in and out. Tendrils of unconsciousness wrap around his body and pull him into the mattress.

The last thing he sees before succumbing is Nico Starvro's terrified expression as he gleefully brought down the axe, and Littman's eyes full of defeated horror as Malcolm stabbed the needle of atropine into his leg.

* * *

Doctor Martin Whitly had just finished his breakfast of oatmeal and toast when the door to his room opened, and the towering physique of Andan Roberts entered.

The doctor smiled, pushing his empty bowl to the side and turning his chair towards the man fully.

"Hello, Andan. Wonderful to see you. I'd like my report. From the top, please." His operative shifted on his feet, going over to the incarcerated man's desk and standing in front of him.

Reaching into his dark coat, Andan pulls a medium sized, shallow box out and sets it in front of his employer.

Along with the box is a thin file, and the agent clears his throat and opens it, scanning and beginning to relay Malcolm's day to his father.

Martin's jaw is tight as Andan describes Malcolm throwing himself through his window, and he only becomes more tense when his son's carelessness for his own health became more apparent.

He calms as he is handed several glossy photos throughout the report, all coded and dated. He expected nothing less from Andan. Doctor Whitly traces a finger over the shape of Malcolm's face in a photo taken at the crime scene. His son looked so professional, put together with his formal attire and gelled hair.

Martin wanted to ruin him. Show all of his little, insignificant police friends just how depraved his precious boy could be.

Seeing the possessive behavior and the glint in the Doctor's eyes, Andan swallows his disgust for the man in front of him. He had a job to do. He was going to give his report mechanically as possible, but with the material it would always sound incredibly wrong and revolting.

"After returning from the crime scene at approximately 2:40 AM, MB showered and exited at 3:20.… MB masturbated for roughly 15 minutes before finishing and getting dressed. MB seemed to wet his pillow with chloroform, before restraining himself and going to sleep."

Andan clears his throat uncomfortably, closing the file and looking at the box.

"Photos and audio tapes of the incident have been provided, Doctor Whitly."

The doctor's cheeks were slightly flushed pink, and he nodded, toying with the taped top of the box.

"Thank you, Andan. Please keep an eye on Malcolm's little... friends.. at the NYPD. We don't want him getting too comfortable with them. He'll need to learn to be apart from them soon enough. If you must, call in back up to control the situation."

The operative nods, thinking of the other "agents" that worked with Martin when he was on the outside. Andan had mostly been in charge of clean up and concealing the victim's identities. Though he did pick up a reasonable amount of security in '98.

"And JW?" Andan asks. The woman had been fairly unconcerned with Malcolm's wellbeing. He didn't quite trust her, before or after the arrest.

"Leave her to me. She won't be bothering Malcolm for much longer. Jessica always had a way of getting in between us.." Martin hums, hand underneath his chin.

"The boy's memories are coming back. Soon enough, their relationship will be even more fractured than it already is. He will come to me, then."

"You have done a remarkable job so far, Andan. Compensation will be in your account by the end of today."

Andan nods. The man may be diabolical and morally corrupt, but damn if he didn't pay good.

"I will see you tomorrow. Ta." Martin lifts his hand up in a lazy wave, eyes focused on the box.

The operative leaves, the guards opening the doors for him. Martin peels the tape off of the box once he's gone, opening the package and staring at it's contents.

Inhaling deeply, Martin holds up a photo. His fingers trembling at the sight of his nude son climbing into his shower. The boy was lanky, but had enough definition that if Martin were to tie him, his muscles would strain nicely.

Hmm. Tying Malcolm up.. it would be the easiest way to get his love to push past his denial. Forcing him to feel every touch, every kiss.

Martin is getting carried away. He takes out all the photos, hitting them against the desk so they laid in a straight pile and setting them aside. A tape player sits innocently at the bottom of the box, a tape already loaded into it. All that's written on it is the previous day's date.

The doctor presses play for a moment, absolutely beaming as a clear recording of his son whimpering and babbling in pleasure. He turns it off, looking over at the door. Martin would listen to the tape in depth later on, after lights off.

For now, though.. The photos.

He needs to memorize every inch of his boy.

* * *

Malcolm Whitly jerks awake. He hadn't put in his mouth guard. Thankfully, it didn't seem like he had grit his teeth in his sleep. He also doesn't wake up screaming.

However, the sense of unease washes over him. He felt rested for once, but the memories plagued him. Making him feel completely drained.

Looking up at the ceiling, he blinks the thin film of sleep away.

"Mother.." Malcolm says to the ceiling. "What did you do?"


	8. 8 - Malcolm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He feels empty inside. At least, his chest does. His head is definitely full, full of unanswered questions, paranoia, and cracking paper machè masks.
> 
> His heart is a completely different situation.
> 
> While Jessica had always been fairly negligent towards him, Malcolm still wanted her love and approval. He couldn't trust her anymore, which was even worse than his father giving him the cold shoulder at their last visit.
> 
> Ainsley was getting more passive aggressive. Their last conversation hadn't gone well. Malcolm could never quite understand her. She was perfect, not a speck of trauma dirtied her.
> 
> She was well liked by her peers and a well adjusted adult. Malcolm couldn't eat a meal smaller than a child's portion and definitely couldn't sleep a full night, let alone a few hours.
> 
> These reasons gave him plausible reasons to despise her, but like his mother, Malcolm wanted love and support from her.
> 
> So it still completely threw him for a loop when she became irrationally jealous of him. Sure, she had grown up without a father, and his mother's attention had been on him. But...
> 
> Bright can't imagine anyone ever wanting the life he has. To go through what he had to endure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! I've done it! Some steamy stuff happens in this chapter, but I'm mostly focusing on Malcolm's developing spiral into full on sociopathy. Trying to get into his head a bit more.
> 
> I ended up getting sick about halfway through writing this, so this is the first chapter that comes out AFTER a new episode :(
> 
> So sorry! I'm going to do the next chapter as soon as I can. Hopefully I can get it out by next Monday. 
> 
> Tell me what you think about this chapter! I was missing Martin this whole chapter, just one scene with them together isn't enough 😭
> 
> I GOT A TUMBLR!! I'm posting the chapters there now (or trying to). I also post memes, my thoughts, photos. Most of it is prodigal son, but I also have a few good omens things on there as well.
> 
> Follow me on there! Chat with me about the story or the show! It's a win win situation, y'know 😜
> 
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/throwaway-sinfulwriter
> 
> p.s shoutout to arcstrider-huntress for being my first follower and liking all my sin! thank you <3

Malcolm could barely recall waking up, getting dressed, and heading to his therapist's office. It was all of big blur, a smear of color on his consciousness. All that was running through his mind was the bright color of his mother's dress, and her nails digging into his arm. Her terrified expression.

His mouth was dry, no matter how much water he drank. Stomach aching, he tried choking down a granola bar at home. Now he just felt sick. Shivery and uncomfortable in his own skin.

The world around him seemed to be crumbling.

Malcolm feels cold. The fall of New York wasn't too bad at this time of year, but even in the warmed office he felt freezing. He thinks of buying some coco on the way home, but knows it won't taste as good as Martin's did.

He feels empty inside. At least, his chest does. His head is definitely full, full of unanswered questions, paranoia, and cracking paper machè masks.

His heart is a completely different situation.

While Jessica had always been fairly negligent towards him, Malcolm still wanted her love and approval. He couldn't trust her anymore, which was even worse than his father giving him the cold shoulder at their last visit.

He had no one. Gil was a good father figure, but he couldn't help Malcolm. Only his father (a psychopath) and his mother (a lying drunk) could help him.

Ainsley was getting more passive aggressive with him. Their last conversation hadn't gone well. Malcolm could never quite understand her. She was perfect, not a speck of trauma dirtied her.

Sure, she worked for a small news channel, but she was well liked by her peers and a well adjusted adult. Malcolm couldn't eat a meal smaller than a child's portion and definitely couldn't sleep a full night, let alone a few hours.

These reasons gave him plausible reasons to despise her, but like his mother, Malcolm wanted love and support from her.

So it still completely threw him for a loop when she became irrationally jealous of him. Like now, for example. Sure, she had grown up without a father, and his mother's attention had been on him. But these were consequences of their lives.

Ainsley might not have known her father, but at least that meant she didn't have to go through the hell that her brother had to go at the man's hands. And while his mother was always occupied with him, well, she had good reasons.

Malcolm had been hysterical in the months after his father's arrest, putting on a brave face in front of his sister but falling apart around his mother. The only thing that helped him from attempting suicide at such a young age was his mother allowing him to visit his father in prison.

Bright can't imagine anyone ever wanting the life he has. To go through what he had to endure.

Overall, in the grand scheme of his familiar relationship, his odds weren't looking good.

The heart inside of him flaked into ash and fell apart.

He had just finished explaining his memory and how he had triggered it to his therapist. Gripping a cool glass of water in his left hand.

She stared at him with a dumbfounded expression.

"You _purposefully_ used chloroform to drug yourself..?"

Malcolm shrugs. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

And it had. He had been so desperate for answers he would have done anything in that moment. Plus, chloroform wasn't the worst he could do. At least he got a half-decent night of sleep.

His therapist tutts, scribbling on the clipboard in front of her. "Malcolm. Chloroform is both toxic and volatile."

He bites into his bottom lip, the flesh soft and chapped from the cold wind. If he bit hard enough, the skin would crack and he would taste his own blood. At least it would wash out the bitterness in his mouth.

"Those are two underrated qualities." He tells her, trying to brush the incident off. It wasn't a big deal. She shouldn't be worrying about that. She should be worrying about his decaying mental state.

He blinks, mind trailing off topic and thinking of decay. He had seen a fair amount of decaying bodies in his day. While they could be incredibly disgusting, they were also equally.. **beautiful**.

An image of one of his "favorite" corpses flashes through his mind.

_It had been one of the first he had seen up close. A man, in his early twenties. Eviserated. When they got there, his intestines were gray and outside of his body. Spilled across his groin and hips._

_Eyes empty and cloudy, staring at Malcolm had stood above him and examined his body._

_The smell was horrible. His blood had coagulated, nearly black against the forest floor. It was gorey, it was messy. It was everything his father's murders weren't. And it thrilled him._

Malcolm had gone into the evidence room that same day, copying the pictures of the body and returning the original photos.

They were in the bottom of the box that held his father's case files, he was sure. Hidden amongst the rest of his shame.

Malcolm blinks hard, back into awareness, and stares at his therapist.

"You are _suffering_, Malcolm. Let me help you. We can make this work. We've done it before. You have to talk to me." He doesn't want to talk. He just wants answers.

He wants comfort. **Love**.

He wants his father.

Malcolm doesn't tell her this. Instead, he says "Tell me about my mother."

His therapist looks thrown off guard for a moment, fidgeting in her seat and clearing her throat. "She's.. a complicated woman."

His teeth grind against each other.

"_Complicated_?" He huffs, trying not to laugh. "Complicated, like she's difficult to figure out? Or complicated, like she's holding 23 murders on her conscience?"

Malcolm continues, anger and betrayal filling the space where his beating heart used to be.

"I told her about the girl in the box. Before my father's arrest." His eyes become wet. The guilt, the anger is eating him alive. Like a parasite.

"She- she got angry with me. Like I had done something wrong." Like it was his fault.

"But you didn't."

He pauses for a moment, the image of his father guiding his hands holding a knife still prickling at the back of his mind.

"..Maybe I did. I don't know. Everything is.." Malcolm sighs loudly, squeezing the skin in between his eyes in frustration. "Everything is hard to remember. What if she didn't want me calling the police?"

The doctor gives him a sympathetic look. "Remember, you're taking all of this from a dream. You're starting to sound obsessive."

His breath quickens. Of course he's obsessive. It was a trait he had inhereted from his father.

"Cause I am! My parent are the fucking Whitly's! The-the perfect couple, the world at their fingertips." His mouth tastes like poison. He's raving, grip tightening on the chair and his glass.

Everyone had always called them the perfect couple. They weren't, and Malcolm knew this from an early age. His father was always with him, and his mother was practically nonexistent in his life besides fancy dinners and his father's arrest.

Everything New York knew about the Whitly's was a complete lie.

"What wouldn't she do to protect that? **_WHAT DID SHE DO_**?!" Malcolm's voice rises into a scream. The glass shatters in his hand.

He hisses at the pain, though it feels good to have something physical to distract him from the turmoil of his mind.

Malcolm stands up, grabbing several tissues and pressing them to his palm to mop up the blood. He's not paying much attention to his therapist, who sits across him with a dumbfounded expression.

"Maybe we should a-adjust your medication." She stutters, scratching a long sentence down on her clipboard.

"My meds are **fine**." His voice is gruff as his hand presses the tissues into his wound, the blood warm against his fingertips. Malcolm stands, heading towards the door.

No lollipops for him today.

"Malcolm, you cannot walk out of here." His teeth press together in anger. How dare she tell him what he can and can't do.

"You are in a crisis." Head turning towards her, his lips are stretched in a manic smile that he makes his therapist involuntarily shiver.

You look so much like your father, Malcolm.

"Finally, something we can agree on."

She makes a last ditch attempt for him to stay.

"Malcolm, please." His eyes narrow.

In his pocket, his phone buzzes angrily in a call. "_Thank God_!" He says breathlessly, digging out his phone and answering. Opening the door to the office and heading out. His voice echoing as the door shuts behind him. "Gil, what have you got?"

The doctor looks down at her clipboard, sighing. Adding another note and underlining it four times.

**Psychotic break imminent.**

* * *

"The victim is Tatiana Moore. 23 years old." Malcolm enters the woman's apartment, moderately impressed by the mood lighting the killer seemed to leave on as he left.

He blinks in wonder at the sight of the body. She was.. blue. Why was she blue? His hand throbs in time with his heartbeat. At least it had stopped bleeding. His bandage was white.

Listening to Gil speaking, it sounds like he's hearing it from underwater. His eyes are stuck on the bathtub. On the dead woman lying inside of it.

"She was a model and a social media influencer. And, no, I don't know what that is. So don't ask."

Malcolm snorts, trying not to laugh as he crouches next to the bathtub. "What is this..?" He asks, fingers outstretched a bit. Debating if he should touch the blue that covered her skin.

"Her assistant found her this morning. Forced entry at the side door. No one heard a thing. Building has motion sensors, but not video." Dani says, her head tilted to the side a bit as she watches him examine the body.

It was strange how the building didn't have security camera's. His eyes narrow as JT clicks his tongue, shaking his head.

"Celebs like TT didn't want video. Videos like that end up on TMZ." Malcolm turns to him.

"TT?"

"Tatiana's Instagram handle." Everyone gives JT a strange look.

"You're a fan?" The profiler is suprised, he didn't think that JT was the kind of man that enjoyed gawking at models. To be fair, for a woman, Tatiana was fairly beautiful.

Malcolm enjoyed people with curly hair. His first Dom had chocolate brown curls that turned into tight ringlets as he sweat. His father's hair also tended to curl. When he was a child it would curve at the ends. Now, most of his hair was curly.

Her hair was too long, but still. In death, she had a certain beauty to her.

"Mm. TT was from Harlem. Was a homegirl before she became famous." It's the first time Malcolm has ever seen JT geninunely mournful over a victim.

He stands, turning his head. Edrisa was next to him. "Doctor." Malcolm greets, nodding in her direction.

"If you're lucky." She says awkwardly, and Malcolm turns his head downwards, smiling. Edrisa was the only other person who acted strangely at crime scenes. Just like him.

"I mean.. hello." The doctor says quickly, seeing his expression.

"I assume she didn't drown? No visible signs of struggle..." Malcolm asks, peering into the blue water that surrounded the lower half of Tatiana's body. There would be water on the floor if there was.

"Agreed. After we take her body I'll look into her lungs for water, and see what's underneath all that body paint."

Speaking of the body paint..

There were gold sequins around her neck, intricately placed. Her eyes were shut, painted blue as well. She looked.. peaceful. Like she was a sleeping doll.

"The killer arranged the scene with an eye for detail.. notice the lighting, the art aspect surrounding the body. It's like he designed it."

JT steps forward, typing something on his phone quickly. "The killer didn't design this. Axel X did." He shows his phone to Malcolm. It's an identical photo of Tatiana, blue paint and sequins. His eyes widen.

"_Who_?" He asks. The name not ringing any bells for him.

"Clothing designer. Helped Tatiana reach her big break. This campaign made her career. They've been together ever since."

Malcolm runs his fingers through his hair, trying not to look as giddy as he felt.

"Th-this is.. incredible! Everything is arranged exactly the same." He looks back over at the photo, and points at the body. "The blue skin, the sequins.. The crime scene was an act of devotion."

There's a confused murmur that travels around the room. Dani's eyebrows go up.

"They were so devoted to Tatiana, they had to kill her?"

Malcolm struggles not to laugh. Dani had been like a big sister to him so far, but she could be so slow sometimes. Everyone around him was so slow.

Didn't they see it like he did?

"No, the killer wasn't after the real Tatiana. He was looking for this.. it was carefully staged. He wanted it to be perfect.. And she had to be dead for it to happen." His hand comes up to his chin, fingers brushing against stubble there. It wasn't a beard like his father's, but it had taken him a long time to grow.

Throughout his 20's, Malcolm's face had been as smooth as the rest of him. Being called a twink too many times in his adult life, he had decided to grow it out.

This is the best results he had gotten in the last 5 year.

He turns when one of the officers outside enters the crime scene.

"I've got an Axel X outside. He claims he's her boyfriend." Malcolm resists the urge to sprint outside to question the man. He was never very good at interrogation.

Gil nods at the officer, and they go back outside. "All right, team. Dani, JT, run Tatiana's friend and family. See if there's any friction there." The two of them agree, Dani pulling out her phone to call in for records. JT gives one last sad look to the model's body before going with her.

"We'll wrangle the boyfriend." Gil's arm wraps around his shoulder. It's warm. A stark contrast to his fingers, and the rest of him. He wants to push his arm off, but it's so heavy. He doesn't have enough strength.

Malcolm wants to ask why the man is so insistent on touching him, but he doesn't think he can handle seeing his hurt expression right now. He would crumble seeing it. So he walks with the detective, down the steps and out into the cold New York air.

There's a fairly large crowd outside, wanting details and answers. Malcolm doesn't do well around crowds.

Turning his head to the left, he hears a man arguing with an officer. Insisting he be let into the scene. He must he Axel, Malcolm thinks as Gil directs him in the direction of the designer.

His arm drops away from Malcolm.

Finally, the profiler can breathe.

They walk up behind the officer, catching the end of the argument as they do. Axel has several people around him, two foreboding men in black and a woman looking annoyed with the situation.

"Come on, man! Let me see her! Don't they know who I am, huh?!" Malcolm struggles not to let his eyes roll back. Axel sounds like his mother when she doesn't get what she wants.

The woman next to Axel sighs. "Ax, they're the police, not paparazzi."

Gil steps next to the officer, patting the man on his shoulder and relieving him from a tedious job. "Hey, Axel?" Axel is glaring daggers in the retreating officer's back.

Malcolm's eyes narrow. He stands silently, examining the man and his companions dynamic. Trying to figure them out.

"Axel." The man's attention snaps to Gil. "My name is Lieutenant Arroyo. If you want to help Tatiana, you have to answer a few questions for us, okay?"

Axel nods, shifting his weight on his feet.

"Were you with her last night?"

The boyfriend of the victim shakes his head. "We, um-"

The woman next to Axel interrupts him, which immediately makes Malcolm suspicious.

"Axel had a gallery opening and then a dinner in Red Hook." Malcolm steps forward, next to Gil. Making himself known.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" He asks. What could her motive be. Jealousy? Money? Fame?

"Hannah Ko, Axel's manager." Jealously, then. She points to the other two men with manicured nails.

"Joey runs security, and Frankie's on media." Frankie turns to Axel, muttering in his ear.

"We need to get ahead of this, Ax. I got your release statement drafted."

Gil regards Axel, sharing a small glance with Malcolm. "Before her death, did Tatiana worry about anyone? Family members? Coworkers?"

The dead woman's boyfriend shook his head. "Tatiana loved her fans. But sometimes, her fans loved her a bit too much. Made a second career out of filing restraining orders."

Malcolm will mention this detail to Dani and JT. He would be interested in seeing those files.

"She had a stalker?" Gil questions, probably thinking the same thing.

"A few."

Axel seems to be getting impatient with the questioning now, banging his hand on the railing in front of him in anger.

"Why can't I see her?!"

Malcolm runs his tongue over his teeth in a nervous habit as Gil speaks. He didn't like Axel. He was quite irritating.

"Believe me, you don't want to see her like this."

He had never seen the corpse of someone he knew, but he imagined the regular person wouldn't be able to handle it. Because of his job, however, he had grown used to seeing dead bodies.

Malcolm wouldn't mind seeing Jessica's corpse. He inhales sharply at the thought, quickly erasing it from his mind like an etch-a-sketch.

"No, I need to. I can't just stand here!"

"Look, Axel, trust me-"

Malcolm interrupts Gil. Axel was incredibly suspicious, and he wanted to see how he would react to the details of the case.

"The killer uses Tatiana's body to recreate your first outdoor campaign."

Axel's eyes widen. Malcolm can see fear in there. He can barely control himself from breaking out into a manic grin. The man was obvious of his guilt in his body language. The normal officer might not be able to see it, but Malcolm was a consultant with a Masters in Psychology.

"The Blue Bath?" He asks, and Malcolm wants to jump into the air, cheering and whooping. Instead, he narrows his eyes and allows his lips to curl into a small smirk.

"What are you afraid of, Axel?" Malcolm's arms cross over his chest. Axel looks nervous.

"Uh, I'm not. It's just, uh, it's awful, man." Bright presses his chapped lips together.

"Awful? That's not how responded just now. Your body trigged an acute stress response. You got.. scared. Why?" He looks Axel over, bottom row of teeth worrying at his lip. Will he be able to crack without the man playing the lawyer card? It was unlikely, but..

One of the security men steps forward, Joey, if Malcolm remembers correctly.

"Yo, why is this Tom Ford looking cop acting like Axel's a suspect?"

Malcolm's eyebrows go up. He's 80% sure that was supposed to be an insult, but he doesn't know who Tom Ford is.. so.

Gil introduces him. "This is Mr. Bright. He's a consultant."

The profiler turns his body, staring at Axel with an intense gaze. "And Axel is a suspect because he's acting _incredibly suspicious_."

Axel pales.

Joey steps back, gesturing to the manager. "Hannah, call the lawyer."

Malcolm sighs quietly, rolling his eyes. How predictable. People always went for the lawyer.

Frankie grabs Axel's arm, pulling him away from the scene. "No more questions. Let's go."

He watches them go, thumbs tucked into the front pocket of his slacks.

Gil turns to him, eyebrows drawn together in an expression of annoyance and incredulous confusion.

"What the **hell**, Bright? You hit Axel like a ton of bricks."

Malcolm nods. He had meant to, obviously. Malcolm Bright didn't do a single thing without carefully planning his actions beforehand. Unless he wasn't in a good mental state.

Like right now.. but, ugh, he didn't have to worry about that on police work. He knew what he was doing.

Right?

"He knows more than he's saying. When Axel heard how Tatiana died, he wasn't sad.. angry.. he was scared. Why?"

Gil's mouth opens, and he struggles for words for a moment before shrugging. "We may never know now, because you made him pull out the lawyer card."

Malcolm shakes his head. "He'll be back. I know it. There's no way he's not involved in this case somehow. His team was acting pretty strange, too.." His voice drops into a mutter, and his hand comes up to his chin as he thinks.

His mentor sighs loudly. "The only one acting strange here is you, Bright. Look, if you can't keep your cool on this case.."

Bright interrupts him. "I can. I know I can. I promise."

Gil stares at him. "What is going on with you, Malcolm?"

"I need a favor."

"A favor!" He can see that Gil barely restrains himself from laughing. "Great timing you have."

That cuts deeper than expected, and Malcolm closes his eyes tightly for a moment, trying not to yell. Didn't Gil see how urgent this was to him?

He opens his eyelids, looking around them. His paranoia always kicked in when he spoke about his father.

"I need access to The Surgeon's case files." The ones he hasn't been able to stealthily copy and keep in his box.

"The video interviews. My mother's, specifically."

Gil looks floored, mouth parting as he shakes his head. "Your mother? Just what kind of rabbit hole are you going down, kid? NYPD will never release those tapes. My hands are tied."

Malcolm stares at him with sad eyes. It doesn't do much, unfortunately. When he was a child that usually made Gil crack, but not today.

He sighs. Holding his head down.

Gil pats his shoulder.

"Come on. I'll take you home."

* * *

Malcolm says goodbye at the door, watching Gil walk away from his building. Glaring at his back. Damn him..

He unlocks the door to his loft, climbing a few steps before he stops. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

His hand grips the railing up into the loft, relaxing minutely when he hears a feminine "Damn that bird."

Malcolm rolls his eyes. His mother was never fond of Sunshine.

He climbs the rest of the steps, turning at the top. Going into his bedroom and sighing at the sight of Jessica. The cardboard that covered the window was now plywood.

"Mother. Why am I not surprised?" He had yet to change the locks, yet she could still get in.

"Why did you go back?" She asks him, turning from the window and staring at him with a nearly unreadable expression. It was a mixture of conflicting emotions.

"You knew what seeing your father again would do with you."

Malcolm swallows. Of course he knew. His PTSD always acted up around Martin.

"But still.. you went to see him. Part of you had to know. You're not sleeping, _eating_-"

He stops her there, holding up a hand and turning to go to the kitchen. "I have work to do." Malcolm gets a cool glass of water, sighing and sipping at the liquid.

Jessica follows him. "Your father has agreed to take you off of his visitation list."

He tenses, nearly choking on his water. Setting his glass down and staring at her. "_What_?" His teeth clench into a sneer. "What did you **_do_**?"

She doesn't seem phased by his glare, eyes quite sad and empty. "Anything to keep my son safe and sane. Ish."

He's a bit jarred by her phrasing. It reminds him of the BDSM guidelines he had been taught. Which he didn't follow..

Instead of voicing this, he tilts his head. Tries to look calm, contrary to the panic he felt building up.

"You went to see him." He says quietly. What did she say to him? What did his father say back?

Was he really off of the visitation list? Why would his father allow her to manipulate him into doing that?

Malcolm feels like crying. But he can't break down in front of the despicable woman in front of him. He was so sick and tired of her trying to separate him from Martin.

"He looked annoyingly good." He might have just vomited a bit in his mouth. Blinking, the image of his mother kissing Martin flashes behind his eyelids.

"Heaven forbid prison be an uncomfortable experience for him."

Malcolm presses his teeth together. "What the _hell_ are you doing? You swore you'd never go to see him."

"You kept that promise for 20 years.. until now. Why?" His eyes narrow. Phantom feelings of his mother's nails digging into his arm makes him shiver.

"Why are you so hell bent on keeping me from him?"

Jessica looks uncomfortable. He knows she's thinking about his obsession with his father.

"Look in mirror, Malcom! You are falling apart with each visit." Her lips press together, painted a plum color today. A stark contrast from her usual rouge.

"I **_need_** those visits." It's sounds desperate even to his own ears.

There's a long, sullen silence. Before he elaborates. Or tries to brush it off.

"…For my work."

"He needs them more." His mother says, stepping closer and looking like she wanted to grab his shoulders. The last time she had tried hadn't turned out well, so she kept her hands to herself.

"You're right." Malcolm says, remembering how desperately his father wanted him to stay. "He wouldn't give them up without a price. What did you _do_?"

"Why am I being interrogated?" His mother rebuttals, and he huffs in irritation.

"Because there's obviously something you don't want me to know."

Jessica's shoulders hunch up, and he can see how angry she was getting. Good. She deserves to feel just a slice of what he felt every single day.

"You kept your visits from me, Malcolm. At least I told you the truth!"

He wants to laugh. His mother was just as much of a liar as his father was. She tried to hide it better, but as he got older he was able to see through her facade.

"Did you know about the murders?" He begins to ask rapid questions, not stopping. Even when he sees his mother's expression.

He doesn't care about hurting her. He wants answers.

"Is that what you're hiding? Why you don't want me to see him? Because you knew?"

Jessica's jaw clenches. And she goes into her poor, tortured spiel.

"I have endured vicious whispers, baseless accusations.. cozy winks from Barbara Walters. I expect it from strangers. Not my son."

She paused for a moment. "It took everything I had to walk into that cell.."

Malcolm glares at her, hands curled into fists. "Oh, spare me, mother. You knew what he was doing."

Before he can even blinks, Jessica's hand comes up and slaps him. The pain is sharp and burning, and his head is jerked to the side. His bandaged hand comes up to his cheek. He's surprised it's not bleeding, with her long nails.

The physical pain is no match for the internal aching he feels.

"..I told you about the girl in the box. Before I called the police. You.. you were wearing a red dress. You yelled at me.. made me promise not to speak of it. Ever again."

He raises his eyes, and his mother is shaking her head desperately. Her hair falling over her face slightly. "Your father is in your head."

"So are _you_." He tells her, and her eyes become cold.

"Isn't it funny, Malcolm? Your father is a goddamn serial killer.. and yet, after all these years, I'm still the monster."

Her shoulders straighten. "I don't care. I don't need you to love me, Malcolm. I just need you alive."

Her heels click against the floor as she opens the door and leaves.

Malcolm falls to the ground, groaning in pain and gripping his face.

He hears the door at the base of the stairs close, and his uninjured hand bashes against the floor.

"**_You bitch_**!" He screams, panting as his cheek stings in unison with his heartbeat. "I know you're hiding something from me.. _fuck_." Malcolm grips the counter of the bar, standing on shaky legs.

He puts some frozen peas on his face. Hissing at the temperature and the shooting pains that run up to his temples. "God.."

His eyes move to the clock. 7 PM. It would be pushing it, but he could still..

Malcolm sets the peas down, grabbing his coat. There's a small mirror next to the door. His cheek is bright red.

He pulls his collar up, locking the door behind him.

* * *

By the time Malcolm makes it to his father's hallway and David, he's lost 400 dollars.

"What are you doing here?" The guard asks, standing up. Malcolm waves him off.

"I just need five minutes." He steps up to the door, banging his hand on the glass. It hurts. He probably should have used the hand that wasn't cut with glass that morning.

His father looks confused to see him, but stands up and comes to the door.

"What's the point of a visitation list if we don't respect it?" He asks, and Malcolm wants to punch through the glass and strangle him.

"Your mother is gonna kill me."

"Why did you help her?" Bright asks him, resisting the urge to press his face to the glass.

"..Well, the first rule of co-parenting is to cater to your partners needs." Malcolm's stomach twists, and he really can't think about that statement without wanting to burst into tears.

His hand, dropped from the glass, clenches into a fist. Martin sees this, and clicks his tongue.

"Oh. Oh, dear. You feel jealous. I should have known."

Malcolm's face twists in an expression of anger, his nose scrunching up. "You are a profound narcissist. You have no idea how I'm.. feeling."

Martin considers this, turning his head to the side a bit and humming. "I think, Malcolm, I may understand you a bit more than you think. I mean.. you keep coming back."

"Have you listened to my voicemails yet?"

Why is he so obsessed with those voicemails? Why did he want him to listen to them so badly?

He can't focus on that right now. There's a reason he came here.

"Did she know about your murders?" Bright asks, quietly. His anger dimming down into a flame insecurity.

His father turns his head to the side, presenting his ear. Malcolm has a brief urge to wrap his tongue around his lobe and tease it with his teeth as his father gro..

"Come again?" Martin asks, and Malcolm blinks hard. Looking to the side at David's irritated expression before turning back. Raising his voice.

"Did my mother know about your murders before your arrest?"

His father's eyes widen, and he smiles strangely. "Oof.. now that's a big accusation, Malcolm. It presents a bit of a.. conundrum, you know."

Malcolm, eyes big and blue, stare intently at his father. Martin swallows, continuing with his train of thought.

"I mean, if I say yes, you won't believe me.. If I say yes, you'll be relieved. Still, a part of you will remember I've been accused of being a pathological liar."

"Tell me, which answer do you want to hear, Malcolm?"

Some of the pain residing in Malcolm shows on his face as he utters a quiet, "The truth."

"Ohh, the truth. Well.. that takes a bit of time. And it can't be shouted through protective glass." Martin taps his fingertips on the glass, and Malcolm flinches at the sound.

His father turns away from the door, walking into the room a bit more and turning his head towards Malcolm.

"Look. Y-you and your mother need to sort out your own issues first. I don't want to get in the middle of that. No, thank you."

Martin sits back down, and his son sneers at him before stepping away from the door.

Malcolm turns to David. "I need back on the visitation list."

The guard shakes his head. "I don't have that kind of authorization-"

Malcolm digs in his coat, pulling out his wallet and gripping 5 crisp, 100 dollar bills. Holding them up for the guard to see. "Well. You better. And if this ever gets back to my mother.. well, let's just say your wife isn't going to be very happy with your longer hours."

David pales, and Malcolm's grins feels like it stretches all the way to his eyes.

* * *

By the time he gets home, it's late. He takes off his coat, looking over at Sunshine's cage. "Hello, sweetie."

Malcolm says quietly, running his fingertip over the top of the parakeet's head. Sunshine chirps, her feathers ruffling. "Are you hungry?" He asks, turning to get some seed for her.

She must be, as the tiny bird attacks the seed with such ferocity it makes Malcolm smile. "Good girl. I'm going to go in the bedroom, okay?" He closes the cage. Standing and watching the bird for a moment before doing what he said he was going to do.

Bright sighs, sitting on his bed and sinking into the mattress. His face didn't hurt as bad anymore.

Lying back, something is hard against his back. Eyebrows furrowing, he stands up, looking back. Oh. It's his cell phone.

He had forgotten it at home.

Malcolm shakes his head at himself, picking up the device and sitting back down.

Unlocking it with his fingerprint. He doesn't have any notifications. Except..

Opening his calls, Malcolm dials his voicemail and presses the speaker button. He's tired. He doesn't want to have to hold the phone for extended periods of time.

He enters his pin, blinking in mild surprise as he gets it right the first time.

"_You have 6 new messages_." His eyebrows go up to his forehead. His father sent more than he thought.

"_Playing first message_.." Malcolm closes his eyes, absentmindedly kicking his shoes off.

"Malcolm, my boy. It's your father." He sighs, rolling his ankles. Wincing when the bones popped. "I put those photos you gave me underneath my pillow. I would put them on the wall, but.. well, I want to have them close when I need them."

He doesn't quite understand what that means, but he takes it with a grain of salt.

"I was looking through some of my things recently and I found some of the birthday cards I sent you.." Birthday cards? He doesn't remember getting any birthday cards from his father.

"Your mother sent all of them back, of course. Quite _cruel_ of her."

"Your birthday used to be so special.. do you remember when I took you to the aquarium? You had just turned six years old.. your mother was working that day, but I took the day off. It was just you and me, all day."

Malcolm's arms stretch out, and he yawns. A haze settling over him. A warmth pulses through him, from his fingertips to his toes.

"You were so excited. There was a new seal pup born just a month before your birthday.. you wanted to see it so badly. I told you that it probably wasn't going to come out, but you were so determined.. Standing in front of the enclosure. Waiting."

Malcolm is taken back to that moment, staring at the many seals. Holding his father's large hand in his own. Bundled up with a woolen hat on his head.

"I tried to get you to go see the other animals, but you refused. I didn't mind, of course. Anything to make you happy.."

He whimpers quietly, mind feeling fuzzy as his feet come up, knees bending. Malcolm wants to get under the blankets. Pretend his father's arms were wrapped around him.

"And you were. Happy. When the seal finally came out, you started jumping up and down. But you stayed completely silent. Not wanting to scare it away. You looked up at me with the most brilliant smile."

Malcolm is diving head first into subspace, his limbs feeling fuzzy and fire spreading throughout his body. His toes flex, like he's burrowing them in warm carpet. Burrowing himself into warm, strong arms.

Being held like he belonged somewhere.

"It's been so long since I've seen you smile, Malcolm. Since you looked at me with any semblence of affection. I miss you, my boy. Call me back."

"_Playing second message_."

"It's your father, Malcolm. Are you getting these messages? I'm going to keep sending them until you listen to them. My dear boy. I've been.. enjoying those pictures you gave me. The ones in Central Park."

His breath hitches. _Enjoying_? Did his father mean..? No, he couldn't.. unless..

Malcolm tried not to think about it too much, but his hand was already dragging down his stomach.

"You always got cold easily. I would have to wrap you in several scarves, do you remember, **love**? Your mother always bought such expensive ones.. they were so thin. You could barely see in front of you after I had bundled you up." Martin Whitly's rich laughter comes out of the phone.

Malcolm whines loudly, feeling like he was trapped underwater in the most wonderful way possible. His father had called him love. It felt like the core of him was melting into liquid.

"I really would like to help you with another case sometime.. You don't seem very interested in pursuing a personal relationship, but.. I do enjoy seeing you, my boy. You've changed so much since the last time we chatted."

He groans. How did his father just skip over the important details and go back to the visits? Malcolm wanted to hear more about the _enjoyment_ and the fact he was calling him **love**, something Martin hadn't done since he was a small child.

"Anyways. Call me back. If you are still getting these."

His back arches as his fingernails rake over his nipples. Feeling so warm, so safe when he listens to the messages. Like his father is in the room with him. Watching him. Praising him.

"_Playing third message_."

Malcolm stops for a moment. Unlike the others, the message doesn't play immediately. Or does it? He strains his ears, picking up on faint breathing. For a moment, Malcolm thinks he's getting a stalker call, bit his fears are quickly put to rest when Martin speaks in a hushed tone.

"Malcolm. Your mother is trying to goad me into taking you off of the visitation list. She came here, did you know that? I assume you don't.. I honestly hadn't expected her to show up. Your mother is many things, but she never tends to go back on her word."

"..She can't keep us apart, Malcolm. She knows that. I know that. You must know it as well. Unfortunately, she has quite a bit of power over me in here, but.. not for much longer, my boy. I'll figure out how to get around her...._barriers_."

Malcolm grunts, hands dipping below his waistband. He strokes his bulge once, twice, three times.. it's like falling backwards on a barrier of light. Being enveloped in the most torturous warmth.

His pants are wet when he comes back to himself, the amazing feeling of subspace washing over him. Malcolm's stomach vaguely hurts, and he turns on his side and the voicemail plays on.

"_Anywho_, the fact still remains. It's going to be a while until we see each other. Face to face, that is. Your mother is quite pissed at me. Still, she can never be as passionate as you are, 'm boy."

He curls into a fetal position. Eyes falling closed. Into the abyss.

* * *

The next day is little more than a big blur in his consciousness. Small snippets of moments are fully comprehended. Malcolm is running 98% on autopilot, his body affected by an intense sub drop that he had experienced when he woke.

He and JT seem to be on slightly more even ground for this case. Malcolm supposes the last case had brought them a bit closer. Standing at Tatiana's memorial, his eyes rake over the man as he speaks of his experience meeting "TT".

The profiler finds himself greedily taking the man in. Surveying his sharp jaw and piercing eyes.

His eyes drop to his pants, and he wonders how big the detective is.

Malcolm nearly gags in disgust at the thought. He hadn't behaved like this since he was a virgin, looking at every man he saw on the street and wondering how they would take him.

He sighs, running a hand over his face.. Malcolm seriously needed to get laid.

Still, he tries to console JT. Placing a hand on his shoulders and assuring him that they would find who had killed the model.

"Can you take your shaky bandage hand off of me? _Cool_." Malcolm blinks, taking his hand off. Okay, too far. Good to know.

He surveys the crowd, tired eyes looking for outliers. Where would he hide if he was a stalker/killer?

JT drags him out of his thoughts by pointing out a lone photographer, a person who perfectly matched the profile Malcolm had just been babbling out.

Bright smiles at the man, approaching the photographer. The man turns pale, and begins running. Which was, frankly, never the sign of a completely innocent man.

The pair runs after him, the man still running when JT tells him they're NYPD. Laughably, the man tumbles in the alley over a pile of trash. Malcolm struggles to keep his mirth in as he snatches the man's camera.

Smiling cruelly, he holds the device in his hands. "Nice camera."

The man tries to defend himself, but his words are shaky. Eyes drawn to the camera in Malcolm's hands. There must be something important on it, then.

"Ugh, it's locked." He groans, head tilting to the sky for a second before looking back down at the camera.

"That's mine. Be-be careful." The photographer tells him nervously, and JT laughs.

"Careful isn't really his fortè."

Malcolm sticks his tongue out a bit, grinning. "Yeah, I have a shaky hand. I get it from my dad." He almost slips up, nearly saying "I got it from my daddy". He's still in that mindset a bit, unable to shake himself out of it completely.

Despite the ongoing murder investigation, Malcolm is feeling quite.. happy for once. Even though he knew it would wear off very soon, it felt nice to allow himself a bit of enjoyment.

JT convinced the man to come back to the station with them. Malcolm reluctantly gives the man (Roger, they learned) his camera back.

On the way back, Malcolm gives JT a very small smile. "Nice job, Partner." The man grunts.

"Don't ever call us that again, Bright."

\--------

Sitting on the table in the debriefing room, Malcolm whips out his phone and begins taking photos, the flash on. JT questions the man as the profiler snaps photos of him.

Roger looks uncomfortable. "I'm a photojournalist. Currently freelancing." He flinches as the flash goes off in his face. "Do you mind?"

Malcolm sits back, eyebrows raised. Blue eyes cold and calculating.

"Oh, sorry, is this annoying? Someone taking your photo without your permission?" He tilts his head to the side. It would look innocent if his eyes didn't hold such a dark look. "Is it, uh, intrusive? Offensive? A-a violation?" He leans in close to Roger, lips pursed in thought.

"Yeah.. I mean, you stalked Tatiana for a living. Called her in the middle of the night, sent her obscene photos.."

JT slaps the folder full of restraining orders and evidence in front of Roger.

"You proud of that, Rog?"

Roger stares up at him. "All I wanted to do was take her picture... Spend some time together."

Malcolm considers him, crossing his legs and putting a hand under his chin. "You cared for her?"

"I loved her. I'd never do something like this, I couldn't."

JT butts in, standing on the other side of Roger. "She love you, too?"

The man puts his head in his hands, distraught. "Just-just stop! I shouldn't be the one in here being questioned! You should be talking to Axel."

Malcolm watches the man. An expression crosses Roger's face. Like he's just released some information he shouldn't have.

"Axel?" JT asks him.

"The guy is shady.."

Bright conceals a laugh. A stalker thinking someone is shady..

"If you have information about Axel that you're not sharing with us.." Malcolm nods his head in JT's direction. Supressing a shiver. He sounded like his father when he said that.

"What do you know?"

Roger gulps.

Malcolm searches deep in his eyes, nodding slowly.

"You can't say.. you can't say because you were stalking Tatiana when you saw something happen. And if you confessed to it.."

He picks up the file, looking through the papers. "You'd be in violation of your court order." Malcolm snaps the file shut. Looking down at Roger and blinking slowly.

"You said you loved her, Roger."

"I did."

"Well.. when you love someone, you'll do anything for them. Even.. even if it hurts you." He tries not to wince, thinking of Martin.

"That's love."

Roger opens his mouth, and Malcom leans forward. Eager to hear the words from their (now) lead suspects words.

"Lawyer." JT curses beside Malcolm, and the profiler himself sighs.

"I want my lawyer.

* * *

Malcolm has another talk with Gil, trying to convince him into giving over the tape. The lieutenant doesn't budge though, and Bright leaves feeling even more frustrated than before.

He decides to follow Roger. Right now, he was their only lead. Axel was firmly protected by lawyers, but Roger still had a bit of leniency.

Lurking in the shadows, Malcolm follows the photojournalist for a few blocks, rushing behind poles and cars alike to conceal himself.

Roger stops. Turns around. "Hello?" He asks to the cool, crisp New York air.

Behind him, Malcom smiles. "Hello, Roger." The man jumps into the air and yelps, staring down at him with a surprised expression.

Bright continues following the man, even when he tries to brush him off and refuse to answer his questions. He even shows Roger Tatiana's post mortem photo. Nothing.

After a bit more taunting, Roger storms off and Malcolm sighs. Stepping into the street and dialing Gil's number. "Hey, Gil. It's me. I tried the photo. Roger still won't talk."

He listens to Gil for a moment, head snapping up when the screech of tires and the thud of a body hitting the concrete.

"Roger?! Oh my god. Oh my god." He kneels next to the man's crumpled body, eyes skitting over to the street signs around them.

"Gil, I need an ambulance. Corner of 52th and 11th. Roger was hit by a car."

Malcolm stays with the man the entire time, riding in the ambulance and furiously typing on his phone. He jumps down when they get there, determined to get his answers from Roger before he left.

What he did next, was something directly out of his father's book.

Doctors and nurses had left Roger alone for a moment, and Malcolm went over to the man. He touches his shoulder lightly and the photojournalist hisses in pain.

"Stay with me, man." Malcolm says. Roger looks up at him, confused.

"What are you talking about?"

Bright looks over his shoulder a split second, before turning back to Roger.

"They can't stop the bleeding, Rog. Not with that broken rib through your stomach."

Roger's eyebrows drew together. "What does that mean?"

"You're gonna die, Roger." It's hard to keep a gleeful smile off of his face. The man looks terrified.

"What? No.. I can't die. I have a cat." Malcolm feels a split second of remorse. He knows that if he died he would regret leaving Sunshine alone.

Bright convinces the man that he needs to come clean about Tatiana, and he's directed into his jacket pocket. Pulling out a small SD card, he grins at his find. Turning to leave.

"Wait." Roger says, and Malcolm cranes his head back at him.

"Take care of my cat."

He grins.

"_Of course_."

* * *

All in all, after that pivotal breakthrough, the case had been fairly shut and close. The actual stalker was stalking Axel, not Tatiana. The girl had just been caught in the crosshairs.

Malcolm stood, wired down, gun to his forehead.. he doesn't feel fear. All he really feels is a sense of exhilaration. Of calm. The team won't let him get shot.

Not even Dani's foreign cold hands could ruin that feeling. Though he flinched greatly when she pulled the wire off of him.

Returning to his loft that night, Malcolm goes to set his keys on the counter when he sees something white set on top.

He picks it up, looking at the object. The spine said Jessica Whitly. Bright tried to smile. Gil came through for him, after all. Malcolm pours himself a finger of scotch. No ice.

Bright stands in front of the television, placing the tape in and sipping the scotch. It burns his throat on the way down. He sniffs, pressing play and staring at the image of his mother.

She looked so different than she did now. Her face wasn't as tired, the bags underneath her eyes were gone. Bright blinks, watching her reactions as she's questioned.

Jessica says that the photos in the folder disgust her. She pushes the tan file forward to the officer. Malcolm's lips curl down. Squeezing his fingers together and letting dark, deepest parts of his mind take over for just a moment.

His father's work was art. It was morbid, and depraved. But it was art, nonetheless. The bodies, regardless if they were buried or left out in the open, were all positioned in such a way that when someone interested in homicide saw them, they thought of art.

At least, Malcolm did.

He snaps back into awareness we his mother tearfully tells Gil that she knew. Malcolm tries to find his breath, his own eyes becoming wet and teary.

The tears fall down his face as his mother says she thought his father was having an affair.

He cries because he can tell, in the way her teeth are clenches and her eyes continually dart from Gil, Jessica is _lying_.

Malcolm crouches down, unable to stay standing. Snivelling, he tries to catch his breath. His hands are violently shaking, and he can barely press the eject button.

His television turns to static as he presses his forehead into the floor. Whimpering pathetically as he tries to gather his thoughts.

Bright's breathing increases, and he's thrown headfirst into an intense panic attack. Clawing at the floor, he gasps and tries to breathe, head pounding as he hyperventilates.

"God.. god, **no**, god.." He writhes, skin too tight for his bones. Knees shaking, his nails embedded into the wood of the floor in front of him. Malcolm needs to calm down, he knows.

But his mind is fighting his body every step of the way, flashes of trauma pushing at him as he tries to use his coping mechanisms.

The walls are closing in. The static on the television is so, so loud. Spots dancing in his vision, Malcolm tries to breathe through his nose and erupts into a coughing fit. Head still bowed towards the floor, a thin line of drool drips from his mouth as he tries to breathe correctly.

"Hmm..hnngg.. ffaa.." His shoulders jump involuntarily as his head raises and he gasps like a fish out of water. Finally getting oxygen to his brain. It's euphoric, his red face tingling with blood vessels brought to the surface.

Stomach clenching unpleasantly, Malcom unsteadily brings himself to stand. Legs shaking like a newborn deer.

"Ahh!" He cries out as he goes for the door, collapsing against the doorframe. "Hgg.. _fuck_." Malcolm pushes a hand over his forehead, sweating like it was a hundred degrees.

Regardless of this, he fumbles for his woolen coat and puts it over his arm, leaving the loft. The fresh, cold air of the night is wonderful on his overheated skin. He stands outside for a moment, gasping and huffing. His breath is visible in front of him.

Malcolm finally fully calms down, humming silently to himself as he gets his phone out of his pocket. Dialing his mother's driver and asking him where she is.

Putting the address into his phone, he sighs and resigns himself to a fairly long walk.

* * *

"Good evening, Mother." Malcolm greets Jessica as she exits the shelter.

On the walk over, he was able to plan out his actions. How he wanted to act in front of his Mother. To her, nothing would change. Or, at least, that was what he was hoping to pull off.

Jessica had already shown how much power she had over him and his father. He couldn't risk staying on her bad side.

It was too dangerous to be.

Who knew what she would do next?

She looks surprised to see him. Hands clasped behind his back, to hide how hard they were trembling.

"Malcolm, what are you doing here?" Jessica asks as she slips a pen into her purse.

Malcolm smiles, shrugging and tilting his head in a casual, calm gesture. "You mean, in the _last place_ I'd come looking for you?" His dry, cracked lips press together. "Why are you here?"

His mother shuffles her weight from her left foot, stepping closer to him. "I'm just checking in on a renovation I'm funding.. Anonymously, of course."

Bright makes a fauxe-sympathetic noise, nodding and looking at his shoes. "You know, if you let your children know about your charity work, maybe they wouldn't go around accusing you of being complicit to murder."

He tells her, watching the shift in her face as she takes in his banter.

"Well. I was taught that whenever a mother shows her children her heart, her children will immediately rip it out. Case in point." Malcolm huffs, giving Jessica a pained look.

He doesn't believe she has a heart. Of course, that meant he didn't have a heart either.

... That was a whole topic to dwell on later.

Reluctantly, Malcolm brings his hands to the front and twiddles his thumbs. "I'm sorry." He says. He's not. But it's what his mother wants to hear.

Something softens in her expression, and she sighs.

"I'm sorry, too. I was drunk." That wasn't much of an excuse, but he would take it. "Toward the end, before they took your father.. it was a dark time. If you had asked for my help-"

Malcolm holds up a hand, interrupting her. He didn't need to hear anymore.

"I had no idea how bad it really was. But.. you made it better. I know that now. How hard it must have been.."

"Thank you." Jessica places a hand on his arm.

"What I can't stand is knowing that he is chained to a wall happy, and we are out here, miserable."

It was a hard fact to come to terms with. It was one things that Malcolm actually agreed with.

"We let him get between us. Let's not let that happen again." When Malcolm doesn't immediately respond, Jessica raises her eyebrows. Malcolm nods, and watches as his mother walks over to the car and drives off.

He turns away from the road, walking into the side alley of the shelter.

Holding onto the insides of his coat, his shoulders begin to shake.

Just that small interaction with his mother had broken down all of his barriers. His chest heaves once, twice. And Malcolm begins to laugh.

Tilting his head up, his laughter is loud and hysterical. Manic in nature, he completely lets go and cracks up. The acoustics of the alleyway bouncing the sound back.

He stops when his throat begins to hurt, laughter slowing down into heavy breathing. His euphoric expression falls into one of complete blankness.

Bright pulls out his cellphone, opening his browser and typing in that oh-so-familiar search. Beginning to walk.

'_BDSM clubs in New York_'

* * *

The club Malcolm had picked was one of the more classy ones. He had enough money, so why not treat himself? The clubs he had frequented as a young adult were quite seedy. Glad to have put that behind him.

He entered the building, a small, warm lounge the check in room. A thin woman stands behind a small stand. She looks up as he enters.

"Card and identification?" He hands over his card and license (though he didn't drive), taking the small clipboard and signing the waver that agreed to the rules.

No hookups inside the building, no non-consensual touching/flirting, no more than six drinks.

And so on and so forth. Pretty regular rules.

Then came the important question.

"Submissive or dominant?"

Malcolm swallows. Averting his eyes from the woman. "Submissive."

She hands over a white pin, and he stares at it. Putting it on the top of his suit jacket. The woman purses her lips, and nods towards the door behind her.

Malcolm enters, inhaling deeply and scanning the room.

It was warm. Both in lighting and temperature. There were booths all over, with a main bar on the left side of the room. Couples and threesomes were sitting in the booths, cuddling and drinking with black and white pins on their clothes.

The submissive man heads to the bar, sitting on the comfortable stool and placing his hands on the bar in front of him.

"What can I get'cha?" The bartender asks Malcolm.

The profiler makes eye content. "Appletini, please."

Roughly three and a half strong drinks in, Malcolm is approached by someone.

A handsome hispanic man, no doubt 5+ years younger than him, slid into the seat next to him.

Their conversation is background noise to Malcolm's ears, not fully processing the man's words or his own.

He catches the man's gaze, smiling at him as he looks at Malcolm's pin. Bright's own eyes fall to the man's pin. It's black.

Malcolm smirks.

Being shoved against the wall of the building outside, Malcolm arches and moans. The man's hands are rough and grope as his hips as their tongues intertwine.

"Oh.. mm, baby.." The man (he doesn't know his name, Malcom must have asked it.. but he hadn't been listening) moans as he kisses down Malcolm's jaw, latching onto his neck.

"_Uh huh_." Malcolm responds, hands tightening on the back of his spontaneous lovers shirt, pulling him closer. His eyes open as he feels a bruise beginning to form.

Blue eyes shift along to the end of the alley as the dominant sucks a bruise into his collarbone. A dark silhouette stands at the end of the alley, legs apart and shoulders hunched in a menacing way. A man, undoubtedly. Tall and wide.

Malcolm gasps, eyes blinking. "Wait, wait, **stop**." He pushes on the Dom's shoulders, trying to get away from being pressed against the wall. The man looks confused, but thankfully he seems to be one of the kind ones.

He pulls away and obliges him. Not getting angry.

Malcolm looks back towards the end of the alley. The man is gone.

He would think that his mind was playing tricks on him, but he swore.. something didn't feel right.

He leaves the alley, mumbling an apology and running in the direction that the alley led to.

After roughly 30 minutes of trying to find whomever was watching them, Malcolm gives up and begins walking back to his building.

His dress shoes making a satisfying sound on the pavement as he walks, Malcolm reads one of his favorite true crime blogs as he travels. Scrolling, he stops as he comes across a post with a police photo of his father attached.

The sound of footsteps continues, and he tenses as he stares at his phone. Frozen in fear. The footsteps grow closer, until they're right behind him.

Malcolm wants to turn around, but he can't breathe. Can't think. _Can't move_.

A deep, rough voice reverberates through his ears.

"Your father is not going to be happy with what happened tonight, Malcolm."

The person says simply, the sound of pavement crunching slightly as they turn and walk away.

Even when they're gone, he can't move. Hand holding his phone trembling so bad he's surprised he hasn't stopped it.

Expression morphed into one of pure horror.


End file.
